The House on Ash

As I reached out for the withered rose that had been the girl, it felt as though I had failed to catch someone plummeting from the top of the tallest skyscraper. When I looked up, all the children were gone. They had vanished into the wind. But she remained—still and serene in the puddle.

I stood frozen for a few moments, the girl’s cry echoing in my mind. Since arriving here, I had felt terrified and lonely, yet my first interaction with another person—if I could even call her that—filled me with even greater fear. I needed to understand this place, its purpose, and why a girl had to despair like that.

“She pointed somewhere,” I reminded myself. My gaze shifted to the estate, so close yet impossibly far from where I stood. With renewed determination, I began walking toward the park entrance, barely noticing the rubble and debris swirling through the air in the gravity storm.

I’d seen it all when I first arrived. Things couldn’t possibly get any weirder than they already were. Just as I thought that, a sheet of paper carried by the wind smacked into my face like a pigeon hitting a windshield.

I peeled it off my face and inspected it closely.

It was a will. I wondered why something so important would be flying around on an open street, but the thought seemed almost trivial given the strange place I found myself.

Unfolding the worn paper, I began to read: I, Emilie Bellerose, of sound mind and body, hereby declare this to be my last will and testament, revoking all prior wills and codicils. To my youngest daughter, Elise Bellerose, I bequeath the entirety of the Bellerose Estate, including all associated properties, assets, and lands. This inheritance comes with the hope that she will protect the estate’s legacy and preserve it as a home of tradition and family unity. To my eldest daughter, Nora Bellerose, I leave the family grand piano, a cherished piece that has filled the halls of the Bellerose Estate with music for generations. May it serve as a reminder of the harmony and beauty that lies within our family’s shared talent.

“Elise Bellerose,” I repeated softly, the name tugging at something buried deep.

I folded the paper carefully and tucked it into my pocket. As I walked, the path beneath my feet became disturbingly familiar. My surroundings blurred, and I found myself retracing a memory—one I had buried deep.

That day.

I waited on the swing, my legs dangling idly as I watched the other children leave, one by one, collected by smiling parents and guardians. Soon, I was the only one left.

“They’re late,” I thought to myself, trying not to feel uneasy. “I’ll just keep reading. They’ll be here soon enough.”

So, I buried my nose in Oliver Twist, the words becoming my company as the late afternoon stretched on. I read and reread the same lines as the sun descended lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. But eventually, the fading light made it impossible to make out any words.

That’s when the worry began to creep in. Had they forgotten me?

It wasn’t far to walk home—maybe half a kilometer at most. For a child, it felt like a daunting journey, but as the last traces of sunlight slipped below the horizon, I realized I didn’t have much of a choice. Clutching my book tightly, I started the walk home.

Humming without a care in the world, I paid little attention to my surroundings. But as I rounded the corner near my home, the air grew heavy with the stench of smoke and scorched wood. The foul smell snapped me out of my childish carelessness.

I saw it—a building engulfed in a horrifying vortex of flame. My house.

I broke into a full sprint, dropping my book, my feet pounding against the sidewalk. As I approached, the fire’s chaos grew deafening—a roaring, thunderous cacophony. When I reached the front yard, I froze, my desperate eyes scanning the scene. My parents—they had never come to pick me up.

A nauseating wave churned in my stomach. Every instinct screamed at me to run into that house, to throw myself into the flames and join whoever remained inside. But the acrid stench of burning wood and the choking smoke held me back.

Each step closer stole more air from my lungs, leaving me gasping and lightheaded. The closer I got, the thinner the air became, until it felt as though the fire itself was pushing me away.

CRRRRAAACK! KA-THUD! WHOOOOSH!

The second story of the house caved in upon itself, the fire disintegrating the foundation like a corrosive acid.

I stood frozen, my eyes wide with an inscrutable mix of fear and helplessness. The crackling roar of the flames drowned out my thoughts, paralyzing me for what felt like an eternity. Finally, as the heat radiated fiercely against my skin, a single thought broke through the haze: I needed help.

I pounded on the door with all the strength I could muster, my fists echoing in the stillness. “Please, someone, open up!” My voice cracked, hoarse and desperate, but no one answered.

House after house, I ran, banging on doors and shouting for help. Each one was the same: locked, silent, empty. The neighborhood was a ghost town, the streets eerily vacant under the weight of the darkening sky.

Defeated, I found myself back in front of the house—the one I had called home. I collapsed onto the curb, my chest heaving as I stared in stunned silence. Flames licked greedily at the walls, swallowing everything in their path. Moments stretched into eternity as I watched the house crumble, piece by piece, into ash and ruin.

It felt like hours before headlights cut through the smoke-filled haze, casting long, flickering shadows across the street. Neighbors returned in a slow, uneasy trickle, their cars lining the curb as if reclaiming a ghost town. The wail of sirens soon followed, sharp and jarring, but the Fire Department arrived too late to save what was already gone.

I sat numbly on the curb, my chest heavy with the weight of ash and silence. The remnants of my home smoldered in front of me, but it was the voices behind me that made my ears prick up.

Two police officers stood near their cruisers, speaking quietly amid the chaos of the night.

“Did the family make it out?” the taller, lanky one asked, his voice low but clear.

“We know for sure the kid’s okay,” his partner replied, gesturing in my direction. “He’s sitting right there.”

“And the parents?”

The second officer hesitated before answering. “A couple of the evacuees at the community center said they didn’t see them there.”

“You think they made it out?”

I turned my head slightly, interested and hopeful in what they had to say.

“Er—well…” The taller officer’s voice faltered, trailing off into the smoldering silence.

I pushed myself up from the curb, my legs unsteady beneath me, and began walking toward what was left of my home. The place where I was born, where I grew up—gone. My home, my books, my parents… everything had been reduced to ash.

As I moved closer to the charred ruins, the world around me blurred. Officers and firefighters darted back and forth like a frantic crowd at a train station, shouting commands and rushing to perform tasks that no longer mattered. There was nothing left to save.

After some emotionless stumbling, I reached the spot where my parents’ room had been. My eyes caught on something: a book, scorched and barely intact, peeking out from the ash. Inside it, a photograph protruded from the charry pages.

I crouched down, brushing soot from the photo with trembling fingers. My father’s face beamed up at me, smiling as he stood beside a man I didn’t recognize. The stranger’s face had been burned away, but something about the way my father smiled told me this man had been important to him.

“Hey, kid!” A voice shouted.

I flinched as the lanky officer from earlier grabbed me by the shoulder. “You can’t be here—it’s not safe,” he said firmly, pulling me back.

I stretched out my free hand, straining toward the book. My fingertips brushed its charred cover, and I managed to grab it just before the officer pulled me away. Pressing the fragile remnant tightly to my chest, I allowed myself to be led away—to wherever they would take me next.

Now, walking this familiar road, I felt the past rising to meet me. Each step echoing the same steps of my younger self. I was reliving another moment I had buried deep—the day I first arrived at the Bellerose Estate.

After the fire, I walked beside a woman with soft, blue eyes—a social worker, I later learned. Her hand gently clasped mine as she led me to my new home. “The Bellerose family is quite the eccentric household,” she said, her tone warm and lilting. “I’m certain you’ll get along with them just fine, little Asher.”

Her words lingered in the quiet air as the estate came into view. Its tall spires and grand façade framed against the deepening twilight sky looked nothing like the home I had lost. Yet, it was where I was meant to begin again. To start from zero.

The woman glanced down at the book I clutched tightly against my chest, her gaze softening. “I’m certain they have all sorts of books,” she said, her tone light and encouraging. “With an estate that big, they must have a private library filled with everything you could ever want to read.”

Her words stirred a faint flicker of interest in me. But guilt quickly followed. How could I feel happiness after the fire? After losing everything?

I looked down at the book I held tightly between my arms and body, its worn leather binding falling apart. Tiny, brittle flakes crumbled away with each step, as if the book itself couldn’t bear to hold together anymore. It was the last memento I had of my previous life—fragile, scarred, and slowly decaying.

“We’re here,” the kind woman said softly, pulling me from my thoughts.

We approached a large wrought-iron gate, where two well-dressed guards moved with precision to heave it open. Beyond the gate, the estate revealed itself in grandeur: the long, paved walkway was framed by lush vegetation and rows of flowers in full bloom. Reds, yellows, and blues painted a vibrant path leading to the grand façade of the mansion ahead.

It was breathtaking, a sight of undeniable beauty. But when my gaze wandered farther, beyond the estate’s main building, it landed on a small, charred structure—its frame blackened and crumbling, much like my own home had been.

Even as I tried to take in the beauty around me—the flowers and their vivid colors—I couldn’t escape the shadow of loss. The kind woman walking beside me must have noticed, her gaze following mine to the distant, charred remains. Without a word, she gently took my hand and hurried us toward the main building’s front door, as if to save me from the weight of the memory.

The mansion towered over us, its ornate design intimidating yet refined. As we reached the large, carved doors, I noticed an unusual array of doorbells—an almost comical collection. There was one shaped like a lion, another a snake with a bow tie, and even a penguin with a tuxedo hat.

The woman hesitated, her expression uncertain as she contemplated which one to press. Her brows furrowed in indecision, and I couldn’t help but notice how out of place she seemed in this grand setting. Finally, I stepped forward and knocked on the door myself.

“Oh, right! I should’ve thought of that,” she said, a faint laugh escaping her as she patted my head gently. “Thank you, little Asher.”

She fussed nervously over every detail of her appearance, a clear sign of just how worried she was about presenting herself well to this family. I could see it in the way she bit her lip and fidgeted with the hem of her jacket—this place made her uneasy, too.

“EMIL, GET THE DOOR, WOULD YOU?”

The voice, sharp and commanding, boomed from the other side of the door, making both of us flinch.

“Y-yes, dear,” came the hurried response, a male voice trembling slightly.

The large mahogany door creaked as it slowly swung open, revealing a tall, thin man standing stiffly in the doorway. His thinning blonde hair clung to his scalp in uneven patches, giving him a nervous, disheveled appearance. Thick, dark eyebrows furrowed over his uncertain gaze as he glanced between me and the woman with an awkward smile.

For a moment, he looked like he might speak, but his mouth opened and closed without a word, as though searching for the right thing to say. Instead, he simply stepped aside, gesturing for us to enter with an awkward, sweeping motion of his hand.

“Why, thank you kindly, Mr. Bellerose,” the woman beside me said, her tone polite yet formal as she stepped into the estate.

“It’s my privilege to welcome you to our home—”

“Emil, please attend to the kitchen. I will handle this from here,” interrupted a firm yet elegant voice.

Descending a majestic staircase that loomed over the grand lobby, a woman appeared, commanding attention with every step. She wore a striking red gown cinched with an ornate belt, her golden hair styled to perfection. Her piercing blue eyes radiated refinement and authority, as though she belonged to a royal court rather than a family estate.

Emil stiffened, his shoulders tightening as he gave a quick nod and retreated without another word, disappearing down a nearby hallway.

“Mrs. Bellerose, it is so nice to meet you—” the social worker began, her voice warm but tentative.

“You may leave now. The boy can stay,” Mrs. Bellerose interrupted, her tone firm and dismissive.

“Well, I needed to go over—”

“You can send the paperwork to my address. I will handle it then,” Mrs. Bellerose said curtly, gesturing toward the door with a flick of her wrist.

The social worker hesitated for only a moment before nodding, her face flushing. “Of course, Mrs. Bellerose,” she stammered before hurrying out of the estate, the heavy door closing with a final thud behind her.

I was left standing there, completely alone and defenseless in this foreign place. The one adult I somewhat trusted had been so overwhelmed by fear—so thoroughly intimidated by this family—that with the slightest push, she abandoned the child she had been tasked to protect.

This family was bad news.