Then something falls.
There’s a sharp sound. Fabric catching. Caleb panicking.
You can hear him trying to smother something. You can hear coughing. You can hear him swear under his breath.
And then you hear him run.
The fire spread faster than anyone could think.
Our building was old. Dry wood. Narrow stairwells. Smoke that filled the air before flames were visible.
Caleb made it outside.
Alana didn’t.
And Isaiah — the boy who confessed — had been upstairs studying with him.
When Caleb stumbled out, coughing and disoriented, Isaiah went the opposite direction.
Back inside.
That’s the part nobody talks about.
He didn’t run.
He didn’t hesitate.
He went back in because he thought he could reach her.
Firefighters found him near the hallway, unconscious from smoke. He survived.
Alana didn’t.
In the chaos that followed, everything blurred together. Police. Investigators. Reporters. Neighbors standing outside watching our lives turn into headlines.
They found Isaiah inside the building.
They found chemical traces on his clothes because he had knocked over a cleaning bottle trying to push through smoke.
They found confusion.
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