Saturday morning dawned quietly in the Blake household. The usual sounds of Sam and Lily's laughter and chatter were subdued, as if the house it's self knew what had happened the night before. The fire, the news, the grief—it was all too heavy. I stayed in my room, curled up on the bed with a blanket wrapped tightly around me. The gray sky outside matched the weight in my chest, cold and unshakable.

I stared out the window, watching the branches of the bare tree sway in the wind. The scene blurred as tears welled up, and I swiped at my face angrily. The house had been old, falling apart, just like my mom. It was almost poetic in the cruelest way. And yet, I couldn't stop the thought that kept haunting me: I should have been there.

A soft knock interrupted the silence. Mrs. Blake's voice followed, warm and gentle. "Emily, breakfast is ready if you're hungry."

"I'm not," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

She hesitated, but I didn't move, and after a moment, I heard her footsteps retreating down the hall. Part of me felt guilty for pushing her away, but the guilt of something else drowned out everything else. I wasn't there. She died alone. The thought twisted in my chest, sharp and unforgiving. I should have been there. It's all my fault.

By late morning, the weight of my emotions had only grown heavier, like something sharp lodged in my chest, impossible to dislodge. The memories of my mom wouldn't leave me alone. Her yelling, the beer cans scattered across the living room, the punishments that came out of nowhere—all of it played on a loop in my mind, no matter how much I tried to push it away.

But tangled in the chaos were the softer moments, and they hurt even more. Like the way she brushed my hair when I was little, humming a tune I didn't know but pretended to recognize. Or my eighth birthday in Folkston, when she surprised me with a lopsided cake that leaned so badly I thought it might topple over before I could blow out the single candle. She smiled so big that day, even though the frosting was uneven, and the cake tasted a little burnt. She had tried, and in that moment, it had been enough.

I hated her sometimes—hated how she could make me feel small with just a look or a word. But I loved her, too. Despite everything, I loved her.

And now she was gone. My whole family is gone.

The fire. The thought of it made my stomach churn. I could see it so clearly in my mind, even though I hadn't been there. Smoke curling through the air, thick and suffocating, the flames swallowing the house whole. The house had been falling apart for years, way before we moved there a few months ago—a death trap waiting to happen—but it had still been ours. It was more than just a house. It was where we'd fought, where I survived, even when it felt like the world outside was crumbling.

I couldn't stop picturing her in those last moments. Alone, coughing as the smoke filled the rooms. The walls glowing with fire, the heat unbearable. Did she try to escape? Did she wonder where I was? Did she call out my name, hoping I would come to save her? My chest tightened, the questions too heavy to bear. I didn't want to think about it, but the thoughts came anyway, relentless and cruel. I should have been there.

I pulled my knees to my chest, hugging them tightly as the tears spilled over again. I hadn't been there. I didn't hear her yelling or calling for help. But that didn't make the guilt any easier to carry. I should have been there. I should have known.

Now, all that was left was—

The silence around me felt too loud, pressing in from all sides, and I couldn't help but wonder if I'd ever feel whole again.

Another knock at the door broke through my thoughts, this one lighter, quicker. "Emily?" Lily's voice was cheerful and insistent, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. "You've got to see this!"

I didn't answer, staring at the faint crack of light creeping in under the door. The room felt impossibly still, except for the faint creak of the ceiling fan above me. It was easier to stay quiet, hoping Lily would give up and leave me alone with the silence. But Lily wasn't the type to give up easily.

The door creaked open a crack, the soft shuffle of her bare feet on the hardwood floor breaking into the quiet. Her bright, smiling face peeked in, framed by a ribbon slipping loose from her hair. She carried a piece of paper in her hands like it was something sacred.

"I drew you something," she said, stepping fully into the room. Her voice, so light and full of life, felt almost out of place here, in the shadows of this room that still smelled faintly of lavender and sunshine. "Look!"

I turned my head just enough to glance at the paper. It was a colorful drawing of a giraffe standing in a field of flowers, its long neck stretching toward the sun. The flowers—messy blobs of red, yellow, and purple—looked like they were swaying in some invisible breeze. In the corner, written in big, bubbly letters surrounded by tiny hearts and stars, were the words: Feel Better Soon, Emily!

"It's nice," I said softly, my voice cracking as I spoke. I managed a small, wavering smile, though the effort of it tugged against the ache deep in my chest.

Lily beamed as if I'd just praised her as the next great artist. She bounced over to the bed, plopping down on the edge without hesitation. The mattress dipped under her weight, making my body shift just slightly, though I felt too heavy to really move.

"I can draw something else if you want! What's your favorite animal?" she asked, her legs swinging.

"I don't know," I admitted. My voice sounded thin, like it was trying to squeeze through the thick cloud that surrounded me.

"Then I'll just pick one," she decided, her grin unwavering. "Maybe a panda. Everyone likes pandas."

Her enthusiasm pushed against the quiet grief pressing on me, like a beam of sunlight breaking through heavy curtains. "A panda sounds good," I murmured, the words barely above a whisper.

"Perfect!" she chirped, leaning forward, her elbows propped on her knees. "I'm gonna draw it in a bamboo forest with butterflies and stuff. It's gonna be amazing."

Her confidence stirred something faint and fragile inside me.

Lily's eyes sparkled like she'd won some invisible contest. "You'll feel better soon, Emily," she said firmly, as if her words alone could mend things. "Promise."

I glanced at the drawing still in my hands, my fingers brushing over the crayon strokes. It smelled faintly of wax, the vibrant colors so unlike the muted grays that filled my world lately. Lily's voice was fading as she skipped out of the room, off to find more crayons.

The giraffe's neck stretched toward the sun, its head tilted as if reaching for something just out of reach. I stared at it for a long time, the ache in my chest growing sharper, heavier.

The lavender-scented breeze from the window stirred the curtains gently, carrying the faintest reminder of her. I tightened my grip on the paper as a lump rose in my throat. Maybe one day, this weight in my chest would lift. Maybe the warmth of Lily's laughter, her determination to make things better, would melt through the cold I couldn't shake.

But for now, I let Lily's warmth fill the empty, quiet corners of the room—and my heart—if only for a little while.

The rest of the day passed slowly, each hour stretching endlessly, as if the clock itself were dragging its feet. I stayed mostly quiet, even as Lily made it her mission to cheer me up.

She was relentless in her efforts, her voice a steady stream of energy that filled the quiet corners of the house. At one point, she appeared in my doorway, tugging at my arm with a determined grin. "Come on," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We're playing a game."

Before I could protest, I found myself in the living room, seated cross-legged on the floor. Lily had already pulled Sam into her orbit, and he gave me an encouraging smile as we set up the pieces of the board game.

"It's gonna be fun," Lily declared, her hands working quickly to organize the cards and tokens. "I'll even let you go first, Emily."

I nodded, picking up the dice. My fingers felt stiff around them, the edges pressing into my palm. When I finally rolled, the clatter of the dice echoed louder than it should have in the stillness of the room.

Every move I made felt mechanical, like I was going through the motions of a script I couldn't rewrite. The bright colors of the board blurred together as my gaze unfocused. I forced a laugh when Sam made a joke, though the sound came out hollow.

Lily, oblivious or perhaps deliberately ignoring my distance, leaned closer as the game went on. She was so close I could smell the faint, sugary hint of the lemonade she'd been drinking earlier.

"You don't have to be sad forever, you know," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustle of the game pieces. "It's okay to smile."

Her words were so simple, yet they hit me harder than I expected, like a small pebble dropped into a still pond. The ripples spread through me, quiet and steady, making it hard to swallow.

I nodded slowly, though I didn't say anything in return. The lump in my throat made words impossible, and I wasn't sure what I'd say even if I could speak.

Lily beamed, as though my nod was the promise she needed. She turned her focus back to the game with the same boundless energy that seemed to define her, laughing and teasing Sam when he made a bad move.

I sat there, letting their voices fill the room, but my thoughts drifted. The house felt too big, even with the three of us gathered together. The air held the faint scent of something I couldn't place—maybe lavender or a hint of old wood polish—both comforting and unbearable at the same time.

As the game dragged on, I let my eyes wander to the window. The sunlight was fading, the golden hues of the afternoon giving way to a muted gray. The familiar ache in my chest stirred, pressing down like a weight I couldn't lift.

But Lily's words lingered, her voice echoing in the back of my mind. It's okay to smile.

Maybe one day, I thought, the ache would ease. Maybe the sunlight outside wouldn't feel so far away. For now, though, I stayed where I was, letting their laughter brush against the edges of my sorrow. It didn't reach all the way through, but it was enough to keep me tethered for a little while longer.

That evening, I found myself on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the stars. The night was still, the kind of quiet that felt heavier than silence. The cool air brushed against my face, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth.

I didn't hear Mrs. Blake approach, but I felt the shift in the air when she sat down beside me. She didn't say anything at first, just looked up at the sky with me. The stars were scattered like pinpricks of light on an endless canvas, distant and untouchable.

"It's okay to feel everything you're feeling," she said after a while, her voice soft but steady. "Sadness, anger, confusion... all of it. There's no right or wrong way to grieve."

Her words settled over me like the blanket wrapped around my shoulders, offering warmth but not quite reaching the cold ache deep inside. I nodded, my throat tight. The words I wanted to say felt too big to fit into the space between us, but eventually, they spilled out anyway.

"It's just... she was still my mom, even after everything. And now she's gone. Completely gone." My voice cracked, the last word barely audible.

Mrs. Blake didn't try to fill the silence that followed. Instead, she slid an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. The gesture was gentle, her embrace steady and warm against the chill of the night.

"I can't imagine how hard this is for you, Emily," she said after a moment. Her tone carried the kind of honesty that didn't try to fix things, just acknowledged the weight of what I was feeling. "But I'm here, and so is everyone else in this house. You're not alone."

I leaned into her, the familiar scent of her lavender lotion mingling with the night air. Her words settled in the spaces I didn't even know needed filling. I wasn't sure I believed them yet—not entirely—but the thought of not being alone, of someone carrying even a fraction of this weight with me, was enough to keep me steady for the moment.

The stars above seemed to blur as tears welled in my eyes, but I didn't let them fall. Instead, I focused on the feel of the blanket around me, the warmth of Mrs. Blake's arm, and the quiet hum of crickets in the distance. The world hadn't stopped spinning, even though mine felt like it had.

For now, I let myself sit in the quiet comfort of her presence, the night stretching on as we stared at the stars together.

Her words were a comfort, even if they didn't erase the ache in my chest. For the first time that day, I let myself lean into her warmth, closing my eyes and letting the quiet of the night surround us. It didn't make the pain go away, but it reminded me that I didn't have to carry it all by myself.

Sunday morning was calmer, and for the first time since the fire, I felt like I could breathe again, even if just a little. The sadness still lingered, but it wasn't as overwhelming as it had been. I got out of bed and joined the family at the breakfast table, where Lily greeted me with her usual enthusiasm.

"Good morning, Emily!" she said, waving a forkful of scrambled eggs. "Guess what I'm drawing today?"

I smiled faintly, shaking my head. "What?"

"A lion," she said proudly. "It's going to have the biggest mane ever. You'll love it."

Her energy was infectious, and I found myself smiling a little more. Mrs. Blake set a plate in front of me and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "It's good to see you out here," she said softly.

After breakfast, I wandered into the living room, where a stack of mail and newspapers sat on the coffee table. The top newspaper caught my eye, its bold headline reading: Fatal Fire on East Side Under Investigation. My chest tightened as I sat down and unfolded the paper, skimming the article.

It didn't take long to find the details. Officials have determined that the fire started in the basement of the home, where a malfunctioning washer ignited and quickly spread through the old wooden structure. Firefighters were unable to contain the blaze before the house was completely engulfed.

I stared at the words, my hands trembling slightly. The washer. That piece of shit I always complained about how old it was, how it rattled and leaked. I thought about how often she'd yelled at me to use it, to get the laundry done even when the basement felt like it might collapse around me.

A shiver ran through me. It could have been me. If things had been different, if I'd still been there, it could have been me trapped in that fire.

"Emily?" Mrs. Blake's voice broke through my thoughts. She was standing in the doorway, her expression full of concern. "Are you okay?"

I nodded slowly, folding the newspaper and setting it back on the table. "I just... I was reading about the fire."

She came over and sat beside me, her hand resting lightly on my arm. "What did it say?"

"It started in the basement," I said quietly. "The washer caught fire."

Her brow furrowed, and she nodded, her grip on my arm tightening slightly. "I'm so sorry, Emily."

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "It could have been me," I said, my voice trembling. "If I'd still been living there... I might not have made it out."

Mrs. Blake didn't respond immediately. Instead, she wrapped her arms around me, holding me close. "But you're here now," she said softly. "You're safe. And you have so much ahead of you, Emily. So many chances to build a better future."

Her words settled over me like a blanket, warm and comforting. I let myself lean into her for a moment before pulling back and nodding. "Thank you," I said, my voice steadier now.

The rest of the day passed quietly. I spent time with Sam and Lily, helping them put together a puzzle and even laughing at Lily's jokes. The sadness didn't disappear, but I found that it didn't weigh me down as much when I focused on the small, good moments.

That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about the article again. The fire had taken my mother, and it had changed everything. But it had also shown me how far I'd come. I wasn't in that house anymore, living in fear and uncertainty. I was here, in a place where I was cared for, where I could start to heal.

And you know what, I felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.