Page 9 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

T he cherry blossom tree stood across the road from the home, surreal against the flames.

A house was engulfed, orange and yellow flames licking the remains like the forked tongue of a snake.

The fire was spreading to the neighbouring home. Flames crackled as roofs caved in and windows burst. Smoke rolled down the lane like a tide coming in. Embers flew from the burning building to settle close to their feet. The firemen were already there, struggling to control the inferno.

Thane was out of the door the moment the car locks disengaged. “Dory!”

The cop caught him, lifted him off the ground as he kicked and thrashed.

“Let me go! Dory!”

He screamed until his throat burned from the residue.

They couldn’t let him near. It was too late.

But the boys refused to leave. They sat on the curb across the road and watched the house of horrors burn.

“Zel?”

His father was a solid man—broad-shouldered, with calloused hands, and a face weathered more by sun and stress than age. He built houses for a living, held up roofs and fixed broken walls. But when he saw his son sitting on the pavement that day, filthy and hollow-eyed, he crumbled like plaster.

“Jaysus, son,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Jaysus Christ…”

His hands shook as they clutched the back of Zel’s neck, his hair, his back, like he couldn’t stop touching him. Like he couldn’t believe he was real.

Zel didn’t speak. He just pressed his forehead into his dad’s collar and let the warmth soak into his bones.

His father kissed the top of his head and held on like a man who’d prayed and never expected an answer.

Lirian’s father came minutes later. He dropped beside him without words, pulling his son into a long, shaking hug. Maro was in foster care, and he knew there was no one coming for him.

The fire was still going, and Thane had to keep watching. He had to be there. He had to see.

Then another voice, followed by a scream, “Thane!”

His head felt heavy as he watched his mum sprint through the police and paramedic barrier. Her face crumpled the second she saw him. She dropped to her knees on the cold concrete, arms wrapping around him so tight he couldn’t breathe.

She was crying, great gasping sobs that wracked her whole body. She kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his muddy and scraped knuckles, and just kept whispering his name like it was a prayer.

“Thane, baby… My baby. Oh my God, Thane—”

He didn’t move.

He let her hold him while he sat there stiffly, but he didn’t hug her back.

Then came his dad, silent and pale. His face was a study of unbearable relief, his unmistakable eyes moist with tears of joy. He crouched slowly, eyes scanning his son as though trying to confirm he was real. And then his arms went around both of them, pulling them together.

Thane’s sister stood just behind them, clutching a coat she must have grabbed on the way out. Her shoulders shook as silent tears burst from her. She didn’t come forward because Thane had not spoken or cried. He had his eyes pinned on the burning building. It was like Thane had come back different.

Thane blinked, his eyes returning to the fire that still roared. Smoke filled the sky. The cherry blossom tree now silhouetted against it, petals fluttering like ash.

His mother’s fingers threaded through his hair. “I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “We thought… We didn’t know—”

“I’m not,” he murmured, his voice cracking on the second word. “But Dory—”

His mother collapsed into him, clinging, sobbing.

His father was hugging his sister.

But Thane’s eyes never left the house.

He just whispered, over and over, “Dory… She’s still in there…”

Later at the hospital, they cleaned his wounds and talked about infection.

Nutritional rehabilitation-the doctor said.

Trauma recovery-he whispered to his parents in a low voice but Thane heard him.

They made him take off his clothes and gave him a hospital gown. The doctor was very polite, always asking him permission before touching him. He felt like he was floating above everything, looking down. It was strange, someone asking him permission before touching him.

Words floated around him like fog.

His mother’s hand never left his. His father sat on the edge of the bed, one hand on Thane’s knee.

Someone knocked.

A middle-aged man stepped in. He had plainclothes, a neat coat and tired eyes but his manner immediately gave him away.

“I’m Detective Inspector David Benson, special crimes unit.”

Thane’s mum tightened her grip on his hand. She hadn’t let go even once since she laid eyes on him like she was afraid he would disappear again if she did.

His dad gave a short nod. “Alright.”

Benson glanced between them. “Would it be alright if I had a quiet word with your lad? Just a couple of questions for now.”

His father hesitated. “Maybe this isn’t—”

“I want to know,” Thane said quietly. His voice was like that of an adult in a child’s body.

Benson gave a small nod, eyes soft. “Alright then, lad.”

He stepped forward and pulled a chair. He then took a small notebook from his coat pocket and flipped it open. “We’ve recovered two bodies from the fire, Thane.”

Thane’s mother let out a breath, sharp and trembling.

“One of ’em’s an adult male. Early thirties, we reckon. Still waitin’ on confirmation.” He paused, his voice dropping. “The other was a child…a girl. About nine or ten years old.”

Thane’s fingers twisted in the blanket on his lap.

“She was…too badly burned to tell much by eye,” Benson said gently. “And there’s nothing in the system—no one reported missin’ under the name Dorothy or Dory.” He looked at Thane carefully. “But the age…the size… It all lines up, son.”

Thane didn’t say anything, just looked down at his hands, now clean of soot, though there was still blood and dirt under his nails.

He could still hear Dory begging him not to leave her.

The scent of burnt plastic and cherry blossoms still clung to the inside of his nose.

He’d known. Somewhere deep inside, he’d already known.

Still…

“It was Dory,” he said.

There was an air of finality in his young voice.

Benson watched him for a long second before he nodded and quietly closed the notebook. “Alright, lad. That’s enough for now. We’ll have another chat later. No rush.”

He didn’t push.

Just turned toward the door before pausing, his hand on the frame.

“We’re still checkin’, Thane. Still goin’ through things, y’know? If something changes—if there’s somethin’ we missed—you’ll be the first we call. You have my word.” Benson stepped out of the hospital room and let the door click shut behind him.

Benson exhaled hard through his nose, hand running down his face. He pulled out his phone, thumb already tapping before the screen lit.

It rang twice.

“Alright, love,” he said, voice softer now. “He gone to bed yet?”

A pause, he nodded to himself.

“Can you give him the phone a sec? Just for a minute.”

There was rustling on the other end, then a child’s voice chimed, “Hi, Dad”

Benson closed his eyes.

“You up, mate?” he said gently. “Didn’t mean to wake ya. Just…wanted to hear your voice.”

Another pause, then a quiet yawn.

“How was rugby, then? You still knockin’ that Owens lad flat on his arse, eh?”

A small chuckle on the other end.

Benson smiled, but it was a tired smile. One that didn’t reach far.

“I bet you are,” he murmured. “Listen, get some kip, alright? I’ll be home late. Tell Mum to save me a bit of pie if there’s any left.”

He paused again, listening.

“I love you, too, son.”

And when the call ended, he just stood there for a moment, staring at the blank screen.

Then he slipped the phone back into his coat pocket, squared his shoulders, and turned down the corridor. There was another report waiting, another case already ticking into life.