I fastened my helmet, my hands trembling but I never acknowledged it.
Today was Mom’s birthday. Another one came and went without saying anything to us. I could almost hear her voice in my thoughts, as clear as ever: “She wasn’t right for you, Ethan. I know what’s best.”
I adored Sarah, really loved her, but Mom never understood. After our most recent dispute, she faked my messages to another female, giving a feeling that I had ch3ated on Sarah.
The proof was too convincing, and Sarah never trusted me. I left home a month later, and since then, every birthday, holiday, and year has passed without me contacting her. But the pain never really subsided.
“Hey, Ethan!” Sam’s voice drew me back, and I looked up. “You all set for tonight’s shift? Rumor is, it might be a quiet one.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I replied, attempting to shrug off the recollections. I smiled back, but my heart was not in it. Today’s weight just wouldn’t lift. But work was work, and tonight I intended to bury myself in it.
Then, just as I was getting concentrated, our radio turned on.
“Engine 27, Engine 27,” came the dispatcher’s voice, urgent and steady. “We have a report of a fire at Crestwood. Repeat, Crestwood. Large structure fire, possible occupants inside.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Crestwood? That’s gotta be the old mansion out on the edge of town. Wasn’t that place empty?”
“Guess not,” I murmured as I strapped on my gear, a familiar low-grade flush of adrenaline kicking in. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
In less than five minutes, we were speeding down the road, sirens blasting and engines roaring.
When we arrived at Crestwood, fames were leaping out of the mansion’s windows, sending thick, black smoke into the sky.
But, just as we were getting into position, I heard shouts.
An enraged, desperate man was pressing against a handful of cops near the barricade.
“I need to get in there!” he exclaimed, his voice straining. He was probably in his twenties, wearing a dark suit and a white shirt that had already been stained with ash. “You don’t understand — my father’s things are in there!”
“Sir, you can’t go in,” an officer replied, holding him back. “The fire’s too intense, it’s not safe.”
“I’m the owner’s son!” he shot back, wrenching away from their grip. “There’s something I need to get. It’s all I have left.”
“Listen, kid, that house is a death trap right now,” another firefighter warned him. “Nothing’s worth risking your life for.”
But he didn’t appear to hear any of it. Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed a small fire extinguisher that had been placed nearby and ducked under the barricade, sprinting for the side exit.
“Hey!” I yelled, lunging forward, but he was faster. The man sprinted straight through the commotion, avoiding police and firefighters and ignoring every call to stop.
“Get him out of there!” someone yelled.
Unfortunately, it was too late. He had already disappeared inside. I took a few steps toward the door, instinct propelling me forward, but then I heard a deafening crack as one of the beams spanning the entrance fell. Sparks flashed up in a blast of light, and I stumbled back, choking on the heavy smoke.
“Ethan, no!” Sam grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “We can’t go in there. It’s suicide.”
I had barely taken off my mask when I spotted him. Covered in soot and leaning heavily against an ambulance, he clutched a little, blackened box to his chest as if it were the most valuable thing in the world.
Medics were fussing over him and checking his vital signs, but he didn’t appear to notice.
His eyes were fixated on the box.
I moved up, cautious not to interrupt, but he looked up, his eyes tired yet peaceful.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” I said, squatting near him. “Not a lot of people could’ve come out of that in one piece.”
I nodded at the box. “Mind if I ask what’s inside?”
He stared down at the box, running his palm over its scorched edges. Slowly, he placed it on the ground between us, softly lifting the lid. But what was inside stopped me in my tracks.
Photographs. Old, a bit scorched around the edges, but still intact. Black-and-white images show a woman happy and smiling with her hair in loose curls. She also has a couple infant images in which she is holding a child in her arms, and her face is filled with delight.
“They’re all I have left of my mother,” he said quietly, his voice rough. “She d.i.e.d when I was four. My father didn’t keep much of her stuff around, but these…”
His voice cracked, and he gulped, blinking to relieve the sting in his eyes. “These were hidden away in an old wine cellar in the basement. Fire-resistant walls. I used to go down there sometimes, just to… see her face, I guess.”
He took a deep breath. “When I saw the fire from the road, I knew I couldn’t let her pictures go up in flames. She’s… she’s all I have.”
I nodded, feeling a pain in my chest. I’d seen individuals lose everything to fire, including jewels, money, and even their homes. But this? A few old photographs of his mother, whom he barely remembered? He had risked all to save her memory.
“You must’ve loved her a lot,” I said softly.
He looked up, his expression somber. “I don’t remember much about her,” he admitted. “But I do remember her smile. And her voice. I remember how she’d sing to me.” He closed the lid, letting out a shaky breath. “These photos… they’re my only proof she was real.”
As he clutched the box close, I remembered my mother. I had spent years refusing to forgive her, letting each birthday and holiday pass without a call.
After my shift, I went to an all-night store and picked out a tiny flower. I arrived at her doorway a little time later, the house still decorated for her birthday. I stood there, nervous, but eventually I knocked.
The door slowly opened, and there she stood, looking as astonished as I’d ever seen her. “Ethan,” she muttered.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” I murmured, extending the flowers. My voice cracked, and I was back at 12 years old, simply wanting my mother to forgive me and tell me everything was fine.
She glanced at me, her eyes welling with tears. “Oh, Ethan,” she said softly, reaching forward and drawing me into an embrace. “I’m sorry… for everything.”
I held her back, all of the old hurt fading away, replaced with a sense of calm I hadn’t felt in years. “I’m sorry, too,” I muttered. “I should’ve come sooner.”
We stood in the doorway, letting go of the past. I felt as if I had returned home for the first time in years.
