FIRE!

The envelope trembled slightly in Jeremiah’s hands. He exhaled slow and steady, the sneer on his face barely twitching as his eyes scanned the words he already knew were coming. Another default notice. The last one.

He sat down hard in the rickety kitchen chair, the wood groaning beneath him. Through the grimy window, the remnants of his once-massive orchard stretched before him—an empire reduced to stumps and barren soil. The creeping sensation of inevitability settled deep in his chest. It was over. It had always been over.

He could tear the letter up if he wanted. Throw it in the fire. Pretend it didn’t exist. But he knew, the moment he’d read those words, the final nail was hammered in.

Jeremiah stared at the letter until the words blurred. The kitchen walls pressed in around him, reminding him of everything he’d lost. Edith’s herbs still hung from the ceiling rafters, brown and brittle now, a decade after her passing. The emptiness of the house echoed with memories of Clara and Beth’s laughter, now silenced by their escape to Sara’s home in Convergence.

His weathered hands traced the grooves in the wooden table, worn smooth by years of family meals. The chair across from him—Angel’s chair—sat empty. She’d be coming soon, he knew. Coming to tell him about that Valens boy. His jaw clenched at the thought.

The bottle of apple brandy beckoned from the counter, half-empty like everything else in his life. He poured a generous measure into a chipped mug, the amber liquid catching the afternoon light. The first sip burned, but not enough to chase away the bitterness rising in his throat.

Through the window, he watched a crow land on one of the few remaining apple trees. Its harsh call seemed to mock him.

The bank’s words on the paper cut deeper than any blade: “Final Notice.” One month. One month before they took everything—the house, the remaining land, what was left of his dignity. The Valens family will finally win.

He took another drink, longer this time. The brandy couldn’t wash away the image of Burl Valens’s patronizing smile, or Klindon’s calculating eyes. And now their son had set his sights on Angel.

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he stood, moving to the mantle where Edith’s portrait hung. The paint had faded, but her eyes still held that same gentle strength that had once tempered his anger. She would have known what to do. She always had.

“I failed you,” he whispered to the portrait. “Failed them all.”

Jeremiah’s gaze swept across the living room, taking in the worn floorboards his great-great-grandfather had laid by hand. Every plank, every beam spoke of a legacy built from nothing but determination and sweat. The mantlepiece still bore the elaborate carvings that had marked the Blush family’s first real success—intricate apple blossoms now dulled by years of neglect.

Ten years ago, his orchards had stretched from horizon to horizon, rivaling even the Valens’ holdings. The sweet scent of apples had perfumed the air year-round, and his cellars had overflowed with the finest brandy in Appledale. His chest tightened at the memory of those golden days, when merchants had lined up at his door, eager to secure the season’s best fruit.

Now dust motes danced in the afternoon light streaming through unwashed windows. The once-pristine walls bore water stains from the leaking roof he couldn’t afford to fix. In the corner, a stack of empty crates—the last remnants of his trading business—gathered cobwebs.

Rage bubbled up inside him like poison. His hands curled into fists as he imagined himself wandering the streets of Appledale, reduced to begging for scraps from the very people who’d once sought his favor. The thought of Klindon’s satisfied smirk made his blood boil.

Would Angel take him in? The question twisted in his gut like a knife. His throat burned with shame as he remembered the bruises he’d left on her arms, the terror in her eyes when he’d lost control. The echo of her tears still haunted these empty halls, along with Clara’s frightened whimpers and Beth’s accusing stares.

No. He knew better. Angel had one foot out the door already, her heart belonging to that Valens boy. The same way his other daughters had fled to Sara’s house in Convergence, Angel would soon vanish into the Valens family, leaving him to rot in his failure.

What a miserable wreck he’d become. His father would have spat at the sight of him—the great Blush legacy crumbling in his useless hands. Even the furniture showed the signs of his decline: the stuffing spilling from torn cushions, the threadbare rugs, the cracked mirror that reflected a stranger’s haunted face.

The final notice crumpled in his pocket as he moved. His legacy would end here, in this house his family had built. No grandchildren would ever race through these halls or climb the apple trees outside. No future generation would carry the Blush name with pride through Appledale’s streets.

Instead, he’d watch that Valens boy claim his last treasure. Angel would marry into prosperity, while he… he would fade into nothing, a cautionary tale whispered around tavern tables. “Poor old Jeremiah,” they’d say, “lost everything to drink and pride.”

The words of the notice burned in his mind: one month. One month to witness the final dismantling of everything his family had built. One month to watch his daughter slip away into a brighter future that had no place for him. One month before the Valens’ seized it all, leaving him with nothing but the bitter taste of failure in his mouth.

His eye caught the lantern on the kitchen table, its gentle flame flickering against the darkening walls. A cold clarity washed over him, dissolving the haze of brandy. If he couldn’t keep what was his, then nobody would have it.

Jeremiah pushed himself up from the chair, his movements suddenly purposeful. The floorboards creaked under his determined stride as he made his way to the cellar. The musty air embraced him as he descended, each step bringing him closer to the rows of shelved bottles—the last of his finest brandy.

His hands, steady now, gathered the precious bottles. These weren’t for drinking anymore. Each one represented years of craft, generations of knowledge. He cradled them one last time before climbing back upstairs.

In the parlor, he hurled the first bottle. It shattered against Edith’s portrait, amber liquid streaming down the canvas like tears. The sharp scent of alcohol filled the air as he moved through the house, marking each room with broken glass and splashed spirits.

The dining room came next. The bottle exploded against the wall where Clara had measured her height, the marks still visible beneath the streaming brandy. Another crashed onto the table where Beth had done her schoolwork, the liquid seeping into the old wood.

His movements grew more frantic as he worked his way through the house. Each smashed bottle felt like breaking another chain that bound him to this place. The kitchen windows rattled with each impact, and the pungent smell of alcohol grew stronger.

Back in the living room, Jeremiah found the oil cabinet. His hands shook slightly as he retrieved the lamp oil, but his resolve never wavered. He walked the perimeter of the room, splashing the oil in wide arcs. It soaked into the floorboards, darker patches spreading like ink stains across paper.

More oil in the kitchen, trailing across countertops where Angel had learned to bake. Through the dining room where family dinners had once filled the air with laughter. Down the hallway where tiny footsteps had once echoed. The sharp chemical smell mixed with the brandy fumes, making his head swim.

Jeremiah returned to the living room, his boots leaving wet footprints in his wake. The lantern waited on the table, its flame dancing innocently. His reflection in the glass chimney showed a man he barely recognized—hollow-eyed and grim.

He lifted the lantern, feeling its weight one last time. The metal was warm against his palm, familiar from countless nights of use. With a grunt of effort, he hurled it against the far wall.

The crash was oddly quiet. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the flame caught the oil-soaked wood, and fire bloomed like a deadly flower. Orange tongues licked up the walls, consuming Edith’s portrait first. The heat pushed him back toward the kitchen.

Jeremiah collapsed into the kitchen chair, the final notice still clutched in his fist. The paper crinkled as his grip tightened. Smoke began to curl under the doorframe, and the crackle of flames grew louder.

Through the window, he could see the sunset painting the sky in shades of orange and red, mirroring the inferno consuming his home. The last rays of light caught the few remaining apples on his trees, making them glow like embers.

The heat intensified, and smoke filled the kitchen. Jeremiah didn’t move. He simply sat, watching the paper in his hands as the flames devoured everything around him. They wouldn’t get his house. They wouldn’t get anything.

The roar of the fire drowned out all other sounds now. Flames danced in the doorway, casting wild shadows across the walls. The heat pressed against him like a physical weight, but still he sat, clutching that final notice as his world burned away.

Through the thickening smoke, he could almost see Edith standing by the stove, Clara and Beth playing in the corner, Angel setting the table for dinner. The memories wavered like mirages in the growing inferno. His eyes stung, whether from smoke or tears, he couldn’t tell anymore.

The kitchen filled with orange light as the fire consumed the doorframe. Jeremiah remained in his chair, unmoving, as flames reached across the ceiling. The paper in his hands began to curl from the heat, its edges browning, then blackening. They wouldn’t get his house. And they wouldn’t get him.

He closed his eyes as the heat finally licked at his skin. No more notices. No more debts. No more Valens. Just warmth. Just quiet.