Too Late

The orchard smelled of rain and apple blossoms as Estaria made his way home, boots squelching slightly in the damp earth. Droplets clung to the new green leaves overhead, occasionally falling to splash against his shoulders. The morning mist had long burned away, leaving the air crisp and clear, but something about it felt off, like a familiar painting hung at the wrong angle.

His mind was focused on the words he’d been practicing. Mom, I’m going to be a father. He let them roll over his tongue, trying to imagine how his parents would react. Would Klindon smile that measured smile of hers, the one that always seemed to hide more than it revealed? Would Burl clap him on the back with those weathered hands, pride shining in his deep brown eyes? Would they be proud of the life he and Angel were building together?

Yet, beneath his rehearsed speech, something itched at the edge of his thoughts, like a splinter he couldn’t quite grasp. A strange, quiet pressure settled between his ribs—something he couldn’t name, couldn’t place no matter how he tried. Something wrong, fundamentally wrong, in a way that made his skin prickle.

He frowned, shook it off, running a hand through his messy black hair. Nerves. That’s all it was. This was a big moment, after all. Life-changing. It was natural to feel uneasy, to second-guess himself.

But the feeling didn’t leave, settling deeper into his bones with each step toward home.

The Valens estate loomed ahead, the white stone catching the afternoon light in a way that made the building seem to glow. The sight was familiar, comforting, yet today it filled Estaria with an inexplicable unease. He stepped onto the worn wooden porch, inhaled deeply—catching the scent of fresh-baked bread and summer dust—and pushed the heavy oak door open.

Inside, Klindon stood at the kitchen counter, forearms dusted in flour, methodically kneading bread. The rhythmic motion of her hands pressed into the dough with practiced precision, folding and pressing, folding and pressing, as she’d done countless times before. Her dark hair was pulled back severely from her face, not a strand out of place despite the domestic task.

Burl was hunched over a ledger at the dining table, his broad shoulders curved forward as he scratched a note into the margin with his fingertip. The afternoon light streaming through the window caught the silver in his hair, making it shine.

Estaria swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. His heart was beating too fast against his ribs, but he forced himself forward, boots scuffing against the wooden floor. This is important. They need to know.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, his voice coming out steadier than he felt, though it seemed to echo in the quiet kitchen.

Klindon didn’t stop kneading right away, her movements becoming deliberately slower, more focused.

Burl’s finger stilled on the ledger, but he didn’t look up.

The strange pressure in Estaria’s chest pulsed, spreading outward like ripples in still water.

“I—” He took a breath, tasting the flour dust in the air. “Angel’s pregnant. We’re getting married.”

Klindon’s hands stopped mid-press, flour-dusted fingers frozen in the pale dough before her.

She didn’t look up immediately, her shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly beneath her worn dress.

Burl’s finger tapped once against the ledger, a single, measured beat against the paper, the sound sharp as breaking glass in the thick silence.

The wrongness in Estaria’s chest deepened, spreading like ink through water until he could barely breathe.

Klindon finally lifted her head, turning toward him, but not fully, her movements deliberate and controlled. Her gaze flicked to Burl first, something unspoken passing between them in that fraction of a moment.

“Well,” she said, her voice smooth as river stones. “That changes things.”

The way she said it—it wasn’t for him. It was for Burl, calculated and weighted with meaning that Estaria couldn’t quite grasp but felt in his bones.

The wrongness roared, flooding through him like a storm surge, threatening to sweep away everything in its path.

Estaria’s breath hitched, catching painfully in his throat as cold dread seized his chest. His skin felt too tight, stretched taut across his bones like a drum skin while his heart hammered against his ribs with such force he thought they might crack.

The room around him flickered, reality seeming to waver and distort at the edges of his vision like heat rising from sun-baked stones.

Smoke twisted into the night sky as Angel ran up the dirt path, her heart slamming against her ribs with such force she thought it might burst. The farmhouse stood against the inferno like a defiant sentinel, its worn wooden edges flickering orange and gold in the dancing light, but the fire hadn’t fully taken it yet. Not yet.

Each desperate step sent jolts of pain through her legs, muscles burning from her sprint across the orchard. The smoke stung her eyes, thick and acrid, carrying the unmistakable stench of burning wood and something else—something chemical that made her stomach turn. The crackle and pop of timber giving way to flame filled her ears, a terrible symphony of destruction that grew louder with each passing moment.

Her breath came in short, painful gasps as she slowed just outside the doorway, her fingers trembling uncontrollably at her sides. Through the smoke-streaked window, clouded with soot and grime, she saw him—Jeremiah, slumped over the kitchen table, head down, unmoving. A half-empty bottle lay tipped near his outstretched hand, its amber contents long soaked into the weathered wood beneath.

She knew that posture well, had seen it countless times throughout her childhood. Drunk. Passed out. The familiar sight sent a wave of bitter memories washing over her—nights spent huddled with Clara and Beth in their shared room, listening to bottles breaking against walls, mornings tiptoeing around his hungover rage, years of walking on eggshells in their own home.

But then her eyes caught something else. Black buildup on the windowpane, creeping like poison ivy up the glass. Thick, tar-like residue crawling higher with each passing moment. She’d heard the old-timers at market talk about fires like this, about how the smoke turned deadly before the flames ever reached you, how it could steal your breath while you slept.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry despite the humid heat pressing against her skin like a suffocating blanket. He was still her father. Despite everything. Despite the lashings that had left scars on her back, the fists that had taught her to flinch at sudden movements, the fear that perpetually haunted Clara and Beth’s eyes.

For just a breath, just the smallest fraction of time, a flicker of guilt curled in her chest, threatening to paralyze her. She had hated him, she had feared him—but she had also spent her entire life trying to fix him, to find some remnant of the man he might have been. The father who had once taught her to climb apple trees, who had carried her on his shoulders at harvest festivals, before the drink had hollowed him out and filled the empty spaces with rage.

No.

Her jaw clenched until her teeth ached. He had made his choices, day after day, bottle after bottle. And she was making hers.

Then she saw it.

Beneath the kitchen table, half-hidden under a chair leg like a forgotten secret, a small cloth doll. Summer. The seams were worn through in places, its colors faded by years of love, but she recognized it instantly. Estaria’s prize. The one precious thing from her childhood she had managed to hold onto through all the dark nights and darker days.

The memory of that festival day washed over her—Estaria’s determined face as he lined up his last ring toss, the pure joy in his eyes when he won, the way his hands shook slightly as he handed her the doll. She’d named it Summer, for its blue dress that matched the ribbons in her hair. It had been her constant companion since then, hidden carefully from Jeremiah’s drunken rages, a tangible reminder that somewhere in the world, love existed without fear.

Angel exhaled sharply, her decision crystallizing in her mind. It wasn’t far. She could be in and out before the fire fully took the house, before the flames claimed this last piece of her heart. Her hand drifted unconsciously to her stomach, where their child grew. One last risk, one last piece of her past to carry into their future.

Her body moved before she could second-guess herself, driven by desperation and determination in equal measure.

She grabbed the iron handle, yanked the door wide with trembling fingers—

And heat roared outward like a dragon’s breath.

The air cracked like a thunderclap as fire burst through the threshold, a hungry, violent rush of superheated gas that seemed alive in its fury. Angel staggered back, throwing up her arms against the onslaught, but the force alone nearly sent her sprawling into the dirt. Her ears rang with a high-pitched whine, the smoke stung her eyes until tears streamed down her face, and a wall of scorching air stole her breath away.

Move. Now.

She blinked rapidly against the sweat blurring her vision, studying the inferno before her. The kitchen table where she’d eaten breakfast every morning of her life had become a dark island in a sea of orange flame. The walls she’d helped her mother paper were bubbling, the cheerful floral pattern blackening and peeling away in long, curling strips. And there, beyond it all, lay Summer, still untouched beneath the heavy oak table that had sheltered so many family meals, so many whispered conversations, so many bruised hopes.

Step forward with desperate purpose—

And her foot caught the damn lip of the doorway that she had tripped over every day of her life, betraying her in that crucial moment.

She pitched forward, arms flailing wildly in the smoke-filled air, and slammed face-first onto the floorboards with bone-jarring force. The impact drove what little air remained from her lungs, leaving her gasping. Stars burst across her vision, bright and cruel.

Pain burst across her forehead like lightning as her skull cracked against the wood. The room spun violently around her, making her stomach lurch. Smoke coiled around her like grasping fingers, filling her mouth, her lungs, burning her from the inside out with merciless intensity. Each breath felt like swallowing needles, but she couldn’t stop herself from gasping, desperate for air that wasn’t there.

No—no, get up.

Her fingers found the doll, clutching at its familiar softness. The fabric felt cool against her palm, a stark contrast to the infernal heat pressing down from above. She curled it into her palm, pushed herself up with trembling arms—

And the moment she stood, her vision darkened at the edges like an encroaching storm. A wave of dizziness slammed into her, stealing her balance and her hope in one cruel sweep. The room tilted wildly, the ceiling and floor trading places in a nauseating dance.

Too fast. Got up too fast.

Her knees buckled beneath her. She hit the floor again with a dull thud that seemed to echo through her bones. Above her, the ceiling beams groaned ominously, tortured wood preparing to give way.

This time, she didn’t rise.

Her limbs felt heavy as lead, weighed down by more than just exhaustion. The floor was so hot beneath her it felt like pressing against a griddle, the fire crackling somewhere behind her, so close now she could feel its hungry breath on her neck. The heat was becoming unbearable, pressing down like a physical weight, squeezing the last remnants of air from her failing lungs.

She tried to crawl forward, but her muscles wouldn’t listen to her increasingly desperate commands. The smoke was thicker now, rolling across the floor like a living thing, seeking entry into her nose, her mouth, her very being. Each shallow breath brought less oxygen than the last.

Through her blurring vision, she saw the doll in front of her, its familiar features distorting in the heat. The old cloth edges curling, blackening like autumn leaves. The blue dress—the same shade as those ribbons from so long ago—beginning to char and fade.

A small tongue of flame, almost beautiful in its deadly grace, licked at the fabric. For a moment, the doll seemed to glow from within, like a star going nova, before succumbing to the inevitable.

Angel exhaled softly, her grip loosening as consciousness began to slip away. Her thoughts turned to Estaria, to the child they’d created, to all the dreams that would now turn to ash alongside her. Her arms and legs managed another foot closer to the door. Her face reached toward the promise of fresh air.

A tall figure with dark hair wearing Estaria’s shirt was running toward the house. She couldn’t quite tell through the smoke, but she knew he had come for her.

She yelled, but the fire had stolen the air. Her arms gave way. Her cheek landed on the floor, which was strangely not hot at all.

She caressed her stomach as the doll filled her vision. She didn’t remember it being a black doll. Had it always been black? She couldn’t remember.

She closed her eyes for just a second. A brief rest so she can be ready when he saved her. When he saved them. Her and baby Thomas. Her child would wrestle a bear some day.

Estaria inhaled sharply, the world snapping back into place. The warmth of the kitchen pressed in around him—flour hanging thick in the air, fresh bread cooling on the worn wooden counter.

Klindon was smiling at him from across the table, her dark eyes fixed on his face. Too smooth. Too measured. Like a mask perfectly fitted.

Burl’s weathered hand patted his back, the gesture meant to be reassuring. A fraction too firm, as if his father wasn’t exactly sure what to do.

His breath came too fast, whistling between his teeth. His fingers curled into his knees until his knuckles went white, the rough fabric of his trousers bunching beneath his grip.

What the hell was that?

The vision still clung to him like cobwebs he couldn’t brush away, the phantom heat of the fire licking at his skin, the crushing weight of smoke filling his lungs. But this was real. The kitchen with its familiar herbs hanging from the rafters. The house that had sheltered him since birth. His parents with him, watching with carefully concealed concern. He was here, safe in the heart of Appledale.

Then why did he feel like something was still wrong? Why did every shadow seem to hold a threat?

His pulse didn’t slow, hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His body was still coiled tight, ready to run at the first sign of danger.

And then—

A scent cut through the homey smell of fresh bread.

Faint. Acrid. Wrong.

Smoke.

His stomach twisted into a knot of ice, and the air grew thick in his throat.

He knew. With a certainty that made his blood run cold, he knew.

His boots slammed against the packed dirt road, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps that tore at his throat. The orchard blurred past him in a rush of green and brown, twisted branches clawing at the darkening sky like desperate fingers.

Then—the scent hit him, acrid and unmistakable.

Smoke.

His stomach dropped, a physical weight that seemed to pull his entire body toward the earth.

The vision was real, horrifyingly, terrifyingly real.

By the time he reached the Blush house, it was too late. The flames had already consumed the roof, orange fire twisting through the wooden beams like serpents, devouring everything in its ravenous path. The heat struck his face like a physical blow.

He didn’t stop. He ran straight in, past the threshold that crackled and groaned beneath his feet.

Angel was there.

Right where she had been in the vision, exactly as he had seen her, down to the way her hair fell across her face.

He barely had to cross the threshold. His hands found her shoulders, pulling, dragging, lifting her limp form from the inferno. The heat seared his arms through his sleeves, his lungs burned with every desperate breath, but he carried her out, stumbling and collapsing onto the grass.

She was soot-streaked, motionless, her skin already cooling despite the fire’s rage. The charred remnants of the doll were still clutched in her delicate hands, its painted face melted and distorted.

Estaria already knew, with a certainty that hollowed out his chest and shattered something vital inside him.

She was gone.