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“Sleep okay?”
She stretches, catlike, and I’m momentarily distracted by the play of muscles under her skin. “Better than I have in years. You make a pretty good pillow.”
A chuckle rumbles through my chest as I run a hand through her tangled hair.
“Happy to be of service.”
For a moment, we lie there, basking in the simple pleasure of being close, but the weight of our situation slowly settles back in, impossible to ignore.
We can’t avoid the world outside forever.
“We should get moving.” I hate to break the peaceful moment. “Find somewhere with a phone. I need to contact my team and let them know what’s happening and that we’re alive.”
In the chaos of last night, my phone is the one thing I left behind.
Ember makes no move to get up. Instead, she burrows closer, pressing her face into the crook of my neck. Her breath is warm against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Five more minutes?”
My arms tighten around her, savoring the warmth of her body against mine.
“Five more minutes,” I agree, unable to deny her this small comfort.
As we lie there, I’m struck by how little I know about Ember.
“Tell me about yourself.” I run my fingers through her hair. “How did you end up on the streets?”
Ember tenses slightly, then relaxes with a sigh. “It’s not a happy story,” she warns.
“I’m listening,” I assure her, giving her the space to share as she chooses.
She’s quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if she’ll answer. Then, softly, she begins.
“I was in foster care since I can remember. Got bounced around a lot. Some homes were okay, others—weren’t. When I was twelve, I ran away. Couldn’t take it anymore.”
My arms tighten around her instinctively. The thought of a young Ember, alone and scared on the streets, makes my chest ache.
“That must have been terrifying.”
She shrugs, the movement slight against my chest. “It was freedom. Scary, yeah, but better than what I left behind.”
“How did you survive?” I marvel at her strength.
Ember shifts, reaching into her pocket. She pulls out a small, slightly squashed candle. “With these. I use them to make money now, but they’ve always been more than a way to make money.”
“How do you mean?”
“Watch.” She sits, holding the candle reverently.
In the dim light, her face takes on an almost otherworldly quality. She lights the candle with a match from her pocket.
The flame flickers to life, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Ember’s eyes reflect the light, lost in memory.
“When things got really bad—when I was cold, hungry, or scared—I’d light a candle and watch the flame dance. For a little while, I imagined I was somewhere else. Somewhere warm and safe.”
I watch, transfixed, as Ember loses herself in the flickering light. For a moment, I glimpse the lonely child she must have been, finding solace in this small flame.
“Sometimes,” she continues, her voice barely above a whisper, “I saw things in the flame. My dreams, I guess. A warmhome. A family. Safety.” She laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “Stupid, huh?”