The fire hit like a dart hits the dartboard: fast and piercing. A spring day, sunny and warm, awaited the burning blaze. The trees had become black with ash, the roof tiles smudged with despair, and the house…

it was the image of devastation.

The windows cracked and broken. The door stood ajar as billowing smoke escaped — suffocated by its own work. The walls were barely walls, yet more like stone on top of stone in an attempt to block out sadness. Looking at this home- oh what used to be such a beautiful home — I realized that everything good must come to an end.

The parents stood aside, watching as the flames destroyed everything they had ever known. They watched as their memories went up with the smoke, only to disperse once it reached the clouds. They watched as their home slowly — very slowly — disappeared. The firefighters crowded the home, the police officers too. There were ambulances, news channels, neighbors, family.

And then there was me. Standing in the open. Looking at the home. The home that used to be mine.