Page 1 of Firethorne

Chapter One

Maya

“Iknow we made the right decision,” my father said, smiling absent-mindedly as we sat in the dimly lit carriage of the night train. “Leaving that town and taking this job, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to us. It’ll be a fresh start. Just what we need.”

I let the steady beat of the track beneath us and the gentle sway of the train lull me into a false sense of security. But my mind echoed troubling words that refused to be silenced.

Where are we going?

Why is my stomach in knots?

What will we find at the end of this journey?

That inner voice, changing from a whisper to a roar, became more persistent as it tried to drown out the other noises around me.

Like a mantra on repeat that mimicked the rhythm of the train.

A chant that became a warning the longer it went on.

This feels wrong.

This feels wrong.

This feels wrong.

But I’d never say the words out loud. I couldn’t, despite them clinging to the tip of my tongue. I didn’t want to rain on my father’s parade.

There’d been enough rain clouds darkening our lives.

Clouds he didn’t deserve.

Neither of us did.

Instead, I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to block out the taunting voices in my head, smiling as I replied, “It’ll be great. You’re right. It’ll be just what we need,” faking sunshine as I envisioned those clouds drifting away.

Admitting that I was devastated to say goodbye to the town I’d grown up in, and the only life I’d known seemed selfish.

My father had hit rock bottom.

If this move brought him out of his pit of despair, then it was a small price to pay.

And I couldn’t bear to lose him, not after everything we’d been through.

My mother had died when I was eight years old. To say my father took it badly was an understatement. He’d started drinking, his mental health plummeted, and for him, life held no meaning without her. I was devastated about her death too, but watching my remaining parent decline in front of my eyes, knowing I could lose him as well, totally shattered me.

One of my most vivid childhood memories was the time I stayed home from school because my father was so drunk he’d passed out on the bathroom floor.

I missed the school bus to stay at home and watch him. To make sure he didn’t stop breathing as he lay on the tiles curled up in a ball.

When he was sick, I cleaned it up. I knew he couldn’t do it himself.

When he woke and started to cry, I held him and told him it’d be okay.

And when school rang, asking where I was, I pretended to be the grandmother I’d never met and told them I was sick.

He doesn’t remember any of it, and I’d never want him to, but it’s scorched into my mind.

I’ll never forget it.