The police finally left as the sun was setting. The house was empty again, marked with yellow tape and the awful absence of the only person who'd made it home. Liz ended up in Charlotte's room, surrounded by her sister's things. Harvard brochures. Astronomy posters—Charlotte had loved stars, had talked about studying astrophysics, had dreams so big they'd filled every corner of their small lives. Liz lay down on Charlotte's bed, curled around her pillow, and finally let herself break. She cried until she had nothing left. She cried for Charlotte, for the life stolen from her. But mostly she cried for herself, for her own unforgivable failure. For being so consumed by her own exhaustion that she'd let her sister face death alone. You know you can handle that yourself. Those words would haunt her forever. Would echo through every room of this house, every quiet moment, every morning she woke alone. Charlotte had handled it herself. Had gone downstairs alone. Had faced whatever waited in that kitchen alone. Had died alone, while Liz slept, exhausted and oblivious, just one floor above. Darkness settled over the house. Liz stayed where she was, unable to move, unable to do anything but exist in this new, terrible reality. Then she smelled it—acrid and sharp, cutting through her grief like a blade. Smoke. Liz's head snapped up. The smell was coming from downstairs, growing stronger by the second. She stumbled to her feet and ran to the hallway. Orange light flickered at the bottom of the stairs, and she heard it then—the hungry crackle of flames devouring wood and fabric and everything they'd built together. The kitchen was ablaze. Fire climbed the curtains, spread across the counters where Charlotte had cleaned just hours before her death, consumed the table where they'd shared countless silent meals. The heat hit Liz like a wall. She should run. Should get out. Should save herself. But Charlotte's laptop was still there, on that table, the last words her sister had written burning away to nothing. Charlotte's Harvard essay. Her dreams. Her voice. Liz lunged forward, flames licking at her arms as she grabbed the laptop. The heat seared her skin, smoke filling her lungs, but she held on, stumbling back toward the stairs. Her vision swam. Her legs gave out on the third step. The laptop clattered from her hands, sliding across the floor, out of reach. Liz lay there, unable to move, watching the fire spread up the stairs toward her. Charlotte's room above. The home they'd struggled to keep. Everything burning. Through the smoke and flames, she could almost see her sister's face. Could almost hear her voice one last time, not pleading or afraid, but quiet and resigned. You know you can handle that yourself. The fire consumed everything, and Liz closed her eyes, finally too tired to fight anymore.
