After the fire, nothing felt real.
The news called me a "mystery hero." A blurry photo of me pulling that girl out made its rounds online. People whispered in school. Teachers gave me strange looks—like they didn't know whether to congratulate or question me.
I didn't tell them the truth.
I didn't tell anyone.
How do you explain that you felt the fire? That it moved like it had a mind—and that it listened to you?
No one would believe me. Hell, I barely believed it.
But something inside me had changed. I couldn't explain it, but I could feel it building—this heat beneath my skin, always humming, like a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
And it was getting stronger.
⸻
I started testing it at night. Small things.
A candle flame flickered when I walked by. My fingers got warm when I concentrated too hard. Once, I even burned a hole through my pillow just by dreaming too hard.
But the scariest part wasn't the power.
It was the visions.
They were getting clearer.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—my dad. Not the goofy, smiling man I remembered from old photos. This version was different. Colder. Stronger. Surrounded by fire… and darkness. And behind him, beasts. Shadows. Monsters too big to be human, too old to be new.
I'd wake up gasping, heart pounding, fingers smoking.
What the hell was happening to me?
⸻
One afternoon after school, I went to the last place I ever saw him—the old train yard where he used to take me before he disappeared. I hadn't been back since. Too many ghosts.
I kicked through some gravel, climbed onto one of the rusted cars, and sat with my sketchbook in my lap. The wind was dry, and the setting sun painted everything orange.
I opened to a fresh page and let my pencil move.
My hand drew fire. Not like before—this time it had shape. Control. Purpose. It curled into a symbol I didn't recognize but felt familiar, almost etched into my bones.
Then I heard a voice.
"Still chasing ghosts, Ember?"
I froze. Turned.
A woman stood by the tracks—tall, in dark clothes, with eyes that burned gold. Something about her was off—like she didn't belong to this world, like she was too perfect. Too still.
"Who are you?" I asked.
She smiled.
"I knew your father."
My heart stopped.
She stepped closer, boots crunching on gravel.
"And if you're smart, you'll forget him. Because the truth isn't what you're looking for. He didn't leave you. He became something else. Something… dangerous."
My fingers curled into fists. The air warmed around me. I didn't know why, but I could feel her lying. Or maybe not lying—twisting the truth.
"I'm not afraid of the truth," I said.
Her smile widened.
"Good. You'll need that fearlessness where you're going."
Before I could ask anything else, she vanished. Like a flame snuffed out.
⸻
I ran home with my heart still racing. That night, I drew her face. Her eyes. Her smile.
And next to her, in shaky handwriting, I wrote:
"They know who I am. And they're watching."