"Hic... hng..."
Tears streamed down my cheeks, blurring the city lights as I stumbled through the empty streets. Each breath came in ragged gasps, choked by the phantom scent of smoke still clinging to my skin. They left me. They left me.
I couldn't understand. I couldn't breathe.
---
[EVENT FLASHBACK]
The house wasn't just on fire—it was alive. It engraved into my eyes, only seeing bright orange everywhere that turned red in my fear. The flames licked the walls hungrily, devouring the only home I had ever known. Smoke curled through the air like dark, whispering hands, smothering my cries before they could escape. "Cough... cough... mommy... daddy... w-where..."
But it wasn't the fire that burned the most. It was them. Their silhouettes disappearing into the night. No hesitation. No glance back.
Why? Why would they... why? Oh, why?
They ran, and they thought I wouldn't see or comprehend.
I clutched my pillow, a pathetic shield against the searing heat. I was still in my room. My room. The only sanctuary I know of, becoming ruins with ash and rubble. They should have known I was here. They should have come for me. But the door never swung open. Their voices never called my name.
Why would you leave me in the depths of hell? I was out here crying while the fire burned my tears before they could fall, the smoke clawing at my lungs.
I was still in my room, so why? Did you forget about me?
The flames looked like monsters trying to devour me, slowly creeping up. "Ah... ahhh!" I'm on fire.
I coughed again,
my throat raw,
my skin prickling under the relentless heat. "Mama... Papa...!" My voice cracked, drowned beneath the roaring inferno.
My clothes were ragged, catching flames onto it as I scream. "Make it stop! Mama! Papa!" I was only five. "It hurts! M-my skin... please!"
Pain.
Pain that split through my body as my clothes caught fire. The agony was unbearable—scalding, peeling, devouring. I could see my own flesh being carved by the flame into dark red and purple burns. I shrieked, rolling desperately, my small hands slapping at the flames that clung to me like a second skin.
"It hurts! Mama! Papa! Help me! Mama!"
No one heard me.
No one wanted to.
Maybe they did hear... but they had already decided. Decided I wasn't worth saving.
Why did you even try to give birth to me?
All these questions running on my mind on my little five-year-old head were already messed up.
I'm a child.
Your child.
I wasn't wanted. I never had been. From the moment I was born, their faces had twisted into something unreadable—disappointment? Revulsion? Maybe both. They never held me, never cooed at me the way other parents did with their children. They pushed me toward the other kids, hoping I'd blend in, hoping I'd become something normal.
But I never did.
"You always look angry," they used to say.
How can I smile with that kind of household?
And I come back to this time. Do I deserve this? I couldn't be. I don't want to be. Please, don't do this to me. I'm a good child. I never did anything wrong haven't I?
I'm a good child if you only had given me a chance. But you two gave up.
My skin bore the evidence of that night—scarred, warped, distorted—but it was nothing compared to what festered beneath. The knowledge that I wasn't worth saving. That even my own parents saw me as disposable.
I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself, nails digging into my forearms as if I could hold the pieces of myself together.
"Do I deserve this?"
Am I meant to be one with the flames? Reduced to ash, forgotten?
"Ahhhh!" I shrieked as I watched myself get consumed by the flame.
At least... at least a flame could hug me better than they can.
Maybe that was why. Maybe that was enough of a reason for them to let me burn.
Those monsters.
When I thought I had died, I woke up on the side of the road.
Lying there—my hands seared red and blistered. My face caked in soot, the scent of burnt wood and something sickly clinging to my skin. My lungs ached with every breath, as if they were still full of inhaled smoke, as if I hadn't really made it out.
And my eyes... my eyes refused to blink, frozen wide open, staring at the scene before me.
I'm alive. But at what cost?
A broken, rasping sound left my throat-laughter? A sob? Maybe both. The world around me felt slow, warped. Firemen shouted to each other, their voices muffled by the ringing in my ears. "Dubuisson's residence. Cuilinn's residence. Lahaye too. Half the neighborhood caught on fire from an unknown source." The hoses rained down onto what was left of my home, but I almost wanted to scream at them to stop. Let it burn. Let it finish the job. "Ha..." They could just have left it burning until it finished eating up every single wall.
Let there be nothing left for me to remember.
I tried to move, but pain lashed through me like a whip, making me trip. The pain was unbearable. "Hngh... hn... m.." I wasn't sure if it was from the burns, the smoke, or...
I look up.
People were being carried into ambulances, draped in blankets, held, comforted. Some had minor burns, some had nothing but shaken nerves, and yet-hands reached for them. Held them steady. Cared for.
But no one looked at me.
No one even glanced my way.
Not me. What about me? I look like a mess. I'm burning inside and out.
I swallowed hard, my throat raw and dry, tasting nothing but ash. "H... hello..." My voice cracked. No one turned. No one flinched.
"I'm hurt..." I croaked, the words scraping out of me like shattered glass. "I'm hurt... can someone... please-" Nothing. Not even a flicker of attention. My chest tightened. A deep, ugly feeling gnawed at my ribs, curling up inside me like a wounded animal.
"I'm right here!" My voice broke, desperate, clawing for something-anything.
And finally, movement. Two firemen walked in my direction. My breath hitched, oh, please. They saw me. My eyes light up in hope. Someone saw me. I wasn't invisible. I wasn't-
"Should we-" one of them started, his eyes on me, his hand half-reaching.
But the other stopped him with a shake of his head. His voice was firm, indifferent. He looked at me as if I was garbage. "She's not our responsibility."
Then they walked away.
Something inside me cracked open, wide and gaping. I stared at them, at the backs of their jackets, at the way they stepped past me like I was nothing more than debris left behind in the wreckage.
And I realized, in that moment, that maybe I had died back in that fire.
And what was left of me wasn't worth saving.
"Hic... hngh... it hurts... ugh..." And that was when I wandered the streets all alone. People look at me as if I was just rubbish, like I was trying to get them to pity me. As if I was a joke, as if acknowledging me would taint them. Each step felt like dragging broken glass across my skin. The world around me blurred, distorted by the stinging heat behind my eyes. Something not meant to exist in their perfect, clean world.
"Mama... hng.." I still call out. a desperate plea from some foolish part of me that still believed in mercy.
But what do you think you're doing, stupid girl?
They're not coming.
They never were. They're not coming to save you. They didn't need you. They left you to burn. They never even called you their own.
They only called you "kid".
"Hn... no... stop it.."
They never even named you.
"I don't want to hear... no.. no, no... NO!"
Thud.
The world spun violently as my knees crashed against the pavement, the jagged ground. My vision flickered—black, then white, then a cold, unforgiving blur. The pain became distant beneath the crushing weight of exhaustion.
Can I just.... die now?
...
...
...
...
"Oh, my goodness... my child, what's wrong? Oh, who left you out here?" A sweet voice. A gentle caress.
"Mama...?" I instinctively say. The word spilled from my lips before I could even think. A reflex, a prayer in my most painful moment.
When I opened my eyes, I could see the most beautiful woman ever. And for a moment, I thought I had died and woke up in some ethereal dream. She was glowing. Not in the way fire did which was raging and destructive—but like moonlight over quiet waters. Her hair fell in perfect curls, cascading around a face that looked as if it had been painted with the softest strokes. Surreal. Yet, It's not my mother.
"I'm not your mother." She says, worry written all over your face. Her brows knitted together as she cupped my face. "But where is yours, dear?"
"I... I don't know."
"Oh, child, whatever do you mean? Your parents? Father? Do you have any siblings? Look at you, you're all messy and... are these burns?"
I didn't know what to say. I wanted to answer. I really did. But the words refused to come, sticking to the walls of my throat like tar.
Because what could I say?
That I had no home? That the people who were supposed to love me never even named me? That all I had ever been was a "kid"-a burden, a mistake, a shadow no one wanted?
That I had burned and no one had come for me?
But I just knew that for the first time in a long time...
Someone had stopped for me.
"You can stay with me, darling. I always wished for my son, Nicholas, to have some company in the house. I'm sure you two will get along. Would you like to stay with me?"
Would I like to? What else is out there for me? What opportunities else lies out
there—if any?
She didn't ask if I had a family. She didn't pry. She just knew. As if she'd looked right through my skin and seen the aching thing beneath. The kind of knowing that comes from experience, from having carried sorrow in her own arms and rocked it to sleep. But why? Why did she care? Why did she take me in without hesitation?
Before I could even understand what was happening, before my mind could arrange itself into questions and doubts, I was already submerged in warm water, the porcelain tub cradling me like something gentle, something I had never quite known. The heat seeped into my bones, unraveling the stiffness of days spent enduring. She treats my wound with ointment. My fingers pressed against the water's surface, watching ripples break and scatter like memories I couldn't hold onto.
And she—this woman—stood near, her presence of quiet reassurance. Not demanding, not intrusive. Just there.
I should question this. I should be wary. But all I could do was sink deeper into the water, into the comfort of being wanted, if only for a little while.
She wraps a warm, soft towel around my head, the gentle fabric drinking in the water as she pats my hair dry. Her touch is light, almost hesitant, as if afraid I might flinch away. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, she combs through the damp strands, untangling them with a patience I am not used to.
"Sweetheart," she murmurs, her voice tender, almost aching. "You look so much better without all that dirt on you. Who... who could have left you like that?"
Her words hang in the air like a question neither of us is ready to answer. I don't respond. I'm not sure I could answer.
So, I stayed silent.
"What happened to you, dear?"
I couldn't utter a thing.
Again, she didn't want to make me feel bad. She exhales softly, like she understands, like she isn't expecting me to explain what I can't even put into words. "It's alright," she soothes. "No matter what happened, you're safe now. You're still so young, dear. You hear me? You're safe."
The word feels foreign.
"Shall we go and get you dressed?"
I just nodded. She held my small little hand and I walked with her. We walk together, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet. The room she leads me to smells faintly of lavender and something else—something like home, though I wouldn't know what home is supposed to smell like. She kneels in front of an old wooden dresser, pulling out a tiny frilly dress, soft ivory with delicate lace at the hem. She holds it up to the light, smiling to herself before turning to me. "This was mine when I was your age." she says, smoothing the fabric between her fingers as if caught in some distant memory. "I have a son now—he's a wonderful boy. But I've always imagined having a little girl, too." Her smile turns wistful before she shakes her head. "But I love him all the same. And I'm sure you're a good child too."
She kneels before me, eyes kind, searching. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
I met her gaze, holding it for a moment too long. Then, slowly, I shake my head.
"No... no name."
Her face softens, and for a second, I think she might cry. But she doesn't. She just nods, as if accepting the absence of something that should have been mine all along.
"I'm Nora. Nora Langlois," she says gently, her voice carrying a warmth I've never known. "But just call me Nora, okay?"
Her fingers stroke through my hair, careful, as if afraid I might break. I don't flinch this time. I don't pull away. Instead, I close my eyes for a moment, trying to remember the last time someone touched me like this—without demand, without force.
"If it's to your liking," she continues, voice almost a whisper, "would you like me to give you a name?"
My breath catches.
Me? A name?
Something inside my chest twists, sharp and sudden, like I've just been pulled from deep water. People name things they care about. I've never been anything worth naming.
My throat feels tight, but I manage to croak out, "Is it... going to be as pretty as Ms. Nora?" My voice is small, uncertain, and maybe a little desperate.
I don't remember the last time I let myself want something.
I happily smile.
She chuckles, a sound like autumn leaves crunching underfoot, soft and full of something I don't quite understand. "Yes, yes," she murmurs. "It will be pretty. It will be...
...Abigail."
The name settles in the air between us, unfamiliar yet warm, like sunlight on a face too used to the cold.
"Abigail..." I repeat, tasting it on my tongue, letting it sink in. It feels foreign. It feels like it doesn't belong to me. But maybe-just maybe-it could.
She watches me patiently. "Do you like it?"
"Yes," I whisper, gripping onto the name like a lifeline. "Yes, I do."
"I'm glad, Abby."
The nickname is new, unfamiliar. It rolls off her tongue like it always belonged to me. I giggle, not out of amusement, but because it feels warm, like sunlight hitting my skin after a long stretch of cold. I twirl a little bit, admiring my figure on the rectangular mirror.
As we step out of the dressing room, the world beyond feels daunting, yet softened by the woman beside me. My fingers instinctively tighten around the fabric of my dress, a delicate thing that still doesn't quite feel like mine.
And then I see him.
A young boy sits on a silk-draped couch, his small frame nestled into the plush blue cushions. He looks up, his gaze locking onto mine. Something about him stills the air.
"Who is this girl, Mama?" His voice is curious, but not unkind.
"This is Abigail, honey," she says gently. "She's going to be staying here with us. She'll be your friend."
I brace myself for rejection. For hesitation. For the subtle tightening of his mouth or the way children sometimes shrink away from strangers, thinking I might have stealed his mother's love away from him.
Instead—
"Wow, Mama," he breathes, eyes wide with sincerity. "She looks pretty in that dress."
I blink at him. Is this Nicholas? The boy I'd been told about? He seems older than me, though he couldn't be more than five. There's a quiet maturity to him, something in the way he tilts his head, studying me like I'm not just a girl in a dress, but something worth knowing.
Nora smiles, tucking a strand of his golden hair behind his ear. "That's a kind thing to say, Nico." She crouches beside him, her voice softer now. "She's the same age as you, sweetheart. I found her... alone. Will you take care of her, my love?"
There's no childish selfishness.
"I will, Mother," he says, and his little hand reaches for mine. "We're gonna have so much fun, Abbie!"
I don't pull away. I don't shrink back. His fingers are small, but they feel steady and real as they hold into mine in a childhood dream.
And in that moment, for the first time in what feels like forever, I believe—
I'm not alone anymore.
These people, their kindness, their softness—
They are going to be my favorite people.
And maybe,
just maybe,
I will be theirs.