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Then the house came into view.
And my body went cold.
The white siding was stained black, like someone had dragged smoke across it with their hands. Windows were shattered. Glass was scattered across the front yard like sharp confetti. Part of the roof had caved in, beams exposed like broken bones.
I pulled into the driveway and just sat there, frozen, staring at what used to be my childhood.
My heart didn’t race at first. It stalled — like it didn’t know how to beat around what I was seeing.
I got out of the car on legs that didn’t feel like mine and walked toward the porch.
The steps were charred and partially collapsed. Grandpa’s wooden chair — his chair — was gone.
And then the smell hit me. Ash. Scorched wood. Something metallic underneath it that made my throat tighten, like my body knew before my brain did that something terrible had happened here.
“Grandpa?” I called out, voice cracking. “Grandpa, are you here?”
Only the wind answered, whistling through broken glass.
The front door hung open, twisted on its hinges. I stepped closer, trying to see inside, and the devastation gutted me. The house didn’t look abandoned. It looked… violated.
“Grandpa!” I yelled, panic finally detonating. “Where are you?”
Nothing.
That’s when a hand touched my shoulder — gentle, but firm enough to stop me from stumbling forward.
I spun around so fast I nearly lost my balance.
“Easy, son,” a calm voice said.
Mrs. Harlow. Grandpa’s next-door neighbor.
She looked older than I remembered, hair fully white now, but her eyes were the same — kind, steady, and sharp enough to see right through me.
“Mrs. Harlow,” I choked out. “What happened? Where’s Grandpa? Is he—”
“He’s alive,” she said quickly, like she could see my fear trying to swallow me whole. “But you didn’t know, did you? About the fire.”
I just stared at her, words stuck somewhere behind my ribs.
“It was three months ago,” she continued softly. “Electrical, they think. Started in the kitchen late at night. Your grandpa… he almost didn’t make it out.”
My knees actually went weak.
“But he’s okay?” I asked, voice shaking. “He’s really okay?”
