More Than Ashes

The smell of smoke woke me up, a thick, acrid scent clinging to my throat.

My heart pounded as sirens pierced the night, a chilling prelude.

Three missed calls from Marco, my dad's sous chef. "It' s the restaurant. It' s… there was a fire."

I ran, the air growing thick with the smell of burning wood and something chemical, something awful.

My world shattered when I saw it: the hollowed-out shell of "The Amber Hearth," my parents' restaurant, my entire life, consumed by flames.

A police officer stopped me, but I could only stare at the wreckage, the place my parents worked, lived, and breathed.

Weeks later, I was living with Chloe, my food critic girlfriend, in her pristine, minimalist apartment.

She supported me, made calls, held me when nightmares struck. "We'll get through this together," she promised.

But that promise felt hollow when the simple click-click-whoosh of a gas stove sent me stumbling in terror, and she quickly turned it off, her embrace distant even as she whispered, "I'll be here for you."

The cracks widened when she abandoned our quiet anniversary dinner, again, for Daniel, her 'anxiety-ridden' former mentor.