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The grass was soft beneath Mannie Scharf’s feet, the air warm with the scent of cut clover and honeysuckle.

His daughter spun in the middle of the park, her bare arms catching the sun, her laughter bubbling like music over the breeze.

Tyra wore the yellow sundress with the sunflower buttons—the one she’d worn on her seventh birthday.

Her curls bounced with every twirl, and her cheeks were flushed with joy.

Mannie watched from a bench shaded by an old oak, smiling as she looped through patches of light and shadow. She turned toward him, eyes sparkling. “Daddy!”

She ran, arms wide, little feet thudding on the path. He stood to meet her, arms open, heart aching with that strange, beautiful fullness he always experienced around his little girl.

But instead of launching into his hug, she twirled again. As she faced him, something shifted.

Her dress stretched longer, darker. Her limbs thinned. The curls straightened into shoulder-length waves. She was older now—maybe eleven. Still smiling, but not as brightly. Her eyes didn’t sparkle quite the same way.

“Look, Dad. ”

Another spin, and she was a teenager. The dress was gone, replaced by jeans and a hoodie. Her fingernails were painted a mix of black and purple. The smile was gone, her gaze distant.

She turned again and reappeared older. Frowning.

Another twirl. And now she scowled. Her eyes locked on his, cold and unrecognizable.

“Tyra?” What happened to his little girl?

He blinked, and the sky darkened.

Smoke began to seep from the trees at the park’s edge, curling in like fog. As he watched, the grass beneath her feet yellowed, then blackened. Her form blurred in the haze.

She opened her mouth to speak, but what came out was no longer sweet.

“Daa-ddy!” Her voice cracked, raw and warped.

He ran toward her, but the air thickened like wet wool. Each step took more effort. Smoke climbed up his legs, into his mouth, down his throat.

He couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe.

Still, he reached through the choking fog, groping for her. When a wisp of hair brushed his fingertips, he clutched for it, pulling her toward him.

She came willingly—but she wasn’t Tyra.

Her skin crumbled at his touch. Her eyes were hollow, her grin wide and skeletal.

She laughed, a sharp, cracking sound, and exhaled a cloud of smoke into his face. “Hi, Daddy…”

Mannie jerked upright, gasping, clutching his chest. A nightmare. Thank God.

He dragged the sheet across his brow to catch the sweat, forcing a deep breath into his lungs…and coughed.

Coughed again.

The panic was instant, primal.

Tyra might’ve been part of a dream.

But the smoke? The smoke was real .

The clock on the nightstand glowed 11:50 p.m., its red numbers barely cutting through the dark. He fumbled for the switch. The bedside lamp clicked on, casting light through the haze.

There was no question anymore.

The house was on fire.

Panic slamming into his chest, he turned toward his wife. “Frances!” he rasped, heart thundering in his ears. Every breath scratched his lungs.

She didn’t move.

He shook her gently. Then harder. “Frannie! Wake up. The house’s on fire.”

She moaned. “What…?”

Mannie grabbed her shoulders, shaking her hard. “You took something, didn’t you?”

She blinked slowly. Her pupils were pinpricks. Damn the sleeping pills.

“Come on.” He pulled her upright, her body heavy and uncooperative. Her knees buckled as he helped her stand.

The knob on the bedroom door was still cool to the touch. He opened it slowly, praying he was wrong.

He wasn’t.

Smoke poured in. Dark. Swirling. Heavy.

Frances coughed beside him, her face twisted in confusion and alarm. “We have to go.” She tugged his arm. “Mannie. Now.”

“Tyra,” he croaked. “I’ve got to find her.”

“No!” She filled both hands with his t-shirt and attempted to pull him toward the stairs. “We need to go. She’s probably already out!”

But he knew his daughter. If she’d been awake, she’d have come to them. Screamed. Something.

Forcing his wife’s hands off him, Mannie pushed her toward the stairs. “Get out. Call 911. I have to check her room.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. He turned down the hallway, crawling low, coughing, one arm stretched out along the wall.

Smoke thickened with each step. His eyes watered. He could barely see.

He reached Tyra’s door. Pressed his hand to the knob.

Searing pain lit up his palm. He jerked back with a cry before lifting the tail of his t-shirt over his hand and trying again.

The door creaked open…and all hell broke loose.

Flames roared at him. Heat shoved him backward, suffocating and brutal. Tyra’s room was an inferno. The walls, the bed, the posters, the stuffed animals she insisted on keeping even into her college years—everything consumed.

He shouted her name, again and again.

The fire answered.

The rabbit she’d had since she was two curled in on itself, blackening. The desk—gone. Her dresser collapsed inward with a crack of surrender.

There was nothing. No shape. No body. No movement.

Just fire.

He coughed, this time gagging. His knees buckled. He stumbled back, smoke clawing at his lungs, his eyes, his thoughts.

Mannie tried to shout again, but only a croak came out. The hallway reeled around him. He reached the stairs. Fell to his hands and knees.

Where was Frannie? Tyra? Had they gotten out?

His vision tunneled. Every breath scraped fire through his throat. His knees buckled.

He thought of Tyra on her first day of school, how she’d clutched his hand with her whole body, eyes wide, trusting. She’d been so sweet then. So?—

Strong arms caught him. Someone hauled him up. A mask pressed against his face. Cool air flooded his lungs, shocking and pure.

He was hoisted up—over a shoulder. The firefighter’s radio crackled near his ear. Lights cut through the smoke.

Mannie fought to lift his head, but he could only scream.

“Tyra! My daughter’s inside. You have to save her!”

He kicked against the weight of the man carrying him. Fought to make them understand.

“Please…my little girl’s in there!”

No one answered.

He screamed until his voice broke. Until the smoke swallowed it whole.

Until there was nothing left.