You are burning.

The fire does not feel warm. It feels like a mouth. It eats the hem of your silk dress. It eats the lace at your wrists. You stand in the center of the drawing room. The walls are peeling. The wallpaper is the color of old bruises. Outside, the rain hammers the glass. Inside, the air is thick with smoke and the smell of rotting flowers.

You do not run.

You look at the mirror. Your reflection is trembling. Your eyes are wide. Your hair is wild. You look like a ghost. You look like a woman who has lost her mind.

"Margaret," a voice says.

You turn.

Edward stands in the doorway. He holds a bucket of water. His face is pale. His hands are shaking. He is your brother. He is the only one who remains.

"Put it out," he says.

"I cannot."

"Margaret. Please."

You look at the fire. The flames dance. They are beautiful. They are alive. They are the only things in this house that are not dead.

"Let it burn," you say.

Edward steps forward. He splashes the water. The fire hisses. The smoke rises. The smell is worse now. It smells of sulfur and ash.

"You are ill," Edward says. "We must go. Father’s will is being contested. The lawyers are here. They are taking everything."

"Let them."

"You will starve."

"I have eaten my pride. I am full."

Edward looks at you. There is pity in his eyes. There is fear. He does not understand. He thinks you are mad. He thinks the grief has eaten your brain. He thinks you have lost your way.

He is right.

But he does not know the truth.

The truth is in the box under the floorboards. The truth is in the letters you burned. The truth is in the debt you paid.

You were the guardian. You were the keeper of the house. You were the one who kept the wolves at bay.

For ten years, you worked. You sold the silver. You sold the books. You sold the paintings. You sold your youth. You sold your dreams. You did it for them. For the community. For the neighbors. For the poor families in the village who relied on the estate for work.

You believed you were saving them. You believed you were saving the soul of the place.

But the system did not see a savior. It saw a thief.

The lawyers did not see a sacrifice. They saw a fraud.

They accused you of embezzlement. They accused you of madness. They locked you in the attic. They took your keys. They took your name.

And now, the fire is the only thing that recognizes you.

"Margaret," Edward says again. "We must leave. Now."

You look at the clock. The hands are stuck. Time has stopped.

"Who will keep the light?" you ask.

"Who?"

"The house," you say. "If we leave, it dies."

Edward laughs. It is a dry, bitter sound. "The house is already dead. We are just corpses walking in its body."

You feel a sharp pain in your chest. It is the pain of truth. It is the pain of being seen.

You walk to the window. You look out into the rain. The village lights are out. The darkness is total.

You think of Mrs. Halloway. She died in the winter. You gave her your coat. You gave her your savings. She died with a smile on her face. She thanked you for your kindness.

You think of Thomas. He was a boy. He stole apples from the orchard. You fed him. You taught him to read. He became a doctor. He saved lives.

You gave everything. And they called you a criminal.

The fire grows. It reaches the curtains. The silk turns to ash.

"Edward," you say. "I am sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"For leaving you alone to carry this."

He looks at you. His eyes are red. "Carry what?"

"You are the heir. You are the name. You are the legacy."

"I am nothing," he says. "I am a shadow."

"No," you say. "You are the light."

He does not understand. He still does not.

You turn back to the fire. You reach out your hand. The heat is intense. It is painful. It is good.

"Watch," you say.

He steps closer. He watches the flames. They lick at the ceiling. They eat the wood. They consume the dust.

"In a moment," you say, "it will be gone. And we will be free."

"Free from what?"

"From the weight."

The fire roars. It sounds like a voice. It sounds like a chorus. It sounds like the whole village singing.

You close your eyes. You remember the day you came back. You were young. You were proud. You thought you could fix it. You thought money could buy love. You thought duty could buy peace.

You were wrong.

But you did not stop. You kept giving. You kept burning.

And now, at the end, you are still burning.

"Margaret," Edward calls out. "The water. It is not enough."

"Good," you say.

"Are you insane?"

"I am free."

He grabs your arm. He pulls you back. His strength is surprising. He drags you away from the flames.

"You cannot die here," he says. "You must live."

"Living is dying slowly," you say. "This is quick."

"No. We will face them. The lawyers. The court. We will tell the truth."

"The truth will not save us."

"Who says?"

"The system," you say. "It does not care about truth. It cares about order. It cares about property. We are not people to it. We are assets."

Edward looks at you. He sees the madness. He sees the clarity.

"We are leaving," he says. "Tonight. Before the sun rises."

You look at the fire. It is dying. The smoke is thick. The air is unbreathable.

"Take the box," you say.

"What box?"

"The one under the floor. The one with the deeds."

"I have it. I have had it for years."

You look at him. You see the betrayal in his face. Not his. Yours.

You gave him the box. You gave him the power. You thought he would use it to protect you. You thought he would use it to save the house.

Instead, he used it to buy his own escape. He used the money to leave. He left you to face the wolves alone.

He left you to burn.

"Why?" you whisper.

He does not answer. He turns away. He walks to the door.

"Margaret," he says. "I am sorry."

"Come back," you say.

"I cannot."

He opens the door. The rain comes in. The cold air hits your face. It is sharp. It is real.

He steps out. The door slams shut.

You are alone.

The fire is out.

Only smoke remains.

You sit on the floor. The wood is cold. The dust settles on your shoulders.

You are in the dark.

You are in the silence.

You are in the truth.

You look at your hands. They are stained with soot. They are stained with ash.

You are a woman of the ash.

You are a woman of the smoke.

You are a woman of the fire.

And you are free.

You stand up. Your legs are weak. Your body aches.

You walk to the window. You open it. The rain fills the room. It soaks your clothes. It soaks your hair.

You look out at the village. The lights are still out. The darkness is still there.

But you are not in the darkness.

You are in the light.

The light of your own making.

The light of your own sacrifice.

You take a deep breath. The air is wet. The air is cold.

It tastes like freedom.

You walk out into the night.

You do not look back.

The house is gone.

The fire is gone.

The debt is gone.

You are gone.

And yet, you are here.

You are the ghost that keeps the light.

You are the shadow that protects the heart.

You are the voice in the smoke.

You are the truth in the fire.

And you are free.

The rain continues. It washes the street. It washes the pavement. It washes the memory of the house.

But it cannot wash away the truth.

The truth remains.

In the smoke.

In the ash.

In the fire.

You walk on.

Into the night.

Into the dark.

Into the light.