Flames of passion

The scent of smoke would haunt Melody for the rest of her life.

It had started as a quiet night. The stars blinked gently over the Benson household, nestled at the edge of a small town just beyond the hills. Melody, barely nineteen, had been humming softly as she arranged the last of her mother's dried lavender on the kitchen shelf. The soft voice of her father's laughter drifted in from the sitting room, and her mother's familiar hum echoed with hers - a sweet melody they always sang when peace settled over the house.

That peace shattered with a sudden scream from outside.

Flames erupted without warning - a crashing roar of fire devouring dry wood, smoke curling under doors, windows exploding in the distance. Melody's father yelled her name. Her mother shoved her toward the back door, her eyes wild with terror.

"Run, Melody! Go!"

She didn't want to leave them. She screamed, begged, but her feet moved.

She never saw them again.

The house burned to the ground in less than fifteen minutes. Fire trucks arrived too late. Neighbors held her back as she collapsed in the street, her body heaving with sobs as ashes floated down like snowflakes. Somewhere in that blaze were her parents - the only family she had ever known.

Two Weeks Later

The church bells rang dully in the gray morning air. Melody stood at the edge of her parents' graves, numb, silent, staring at the soil like it might open and let her fall in with them.

She had no one left. No siblings. No close relatives. The bank had already begun seizing the property - her home, her past, all reduced to ashes and legal files.

She had a single bag, one good dress, and fifty cedis in her purse.

Just as the gravediggers began their final shovelfuls of earth, a black car pulled up behind her.