The Flames Remember

Mira'

is always

e tears-and then the whole room exhales flame. The air thickens with smoke, piano keys melting in

ir

s swallowed

e. And just before the ceiling gives way, I see a silhouette standing beyond the glass-t

rything

the tast

ke a scar down its middle. The radiator hums softly, the world outside muffl

ream. The

r a moment I can still smell burning lacquer, though my

my body. I force my feet onto the cold flo

never feel

ed mark wrapping my right wrist. It looks like a healed burn, thin and pale against

nce joked when she saw it. I laughe

jeans, and the long camel coat I bought from a thrift shop. The rain outside has turned to sleet, pe

rellas and murmured phone calls. I wedge myself between a salaryman and a student scrolling through s

darkness, I see flames

gy Building B looms ahead, its glass façade dripping with r

n a week," she says, handing me a

one,"

write it down. Sometime

I need therapy," I say

emory, every word seems to tilt toward me: suppres

and distant exhaust. Students cluster under cherry trees stripped bare for winter. One tree tru

ifth Anniversary of the Cheongdam

sed, charred beams silhouetted against orange light. For a seco

nty-two-year-old pianist Lina Vale remains

like smoke in the

and something inside me shif

my tongue long aft

a V

e a line from a song

y-two, promising, beautiful. Died in a house fire that started near her musi

mera, sunlight threading through her hair. My pulse stutters. Her eyes are mine

fogs the p

" I whisper.

line makes my

s boyfriend, a volunteer fire

ies the silhouette from my d

Campus drains into the city like a tide of umbrellas. My legs move automatically

the time I reach the station stairs, rain has turned to a fine mist. A gust o

niform jacket slung over his shoulder. Fire Department patch. He's talking

is temple-and my chest tightens. I don't know him, but my body d

, maybe less. The noise of the station fades to a hum. Th

s are s

I mutter, pressing my pal

his jacket had

narrow streets. Neon signs flicker over puddles; the smell of roasted chestnuts mixes with ex

eath a plastic awning. The melody is soft, minor key, haunting.

he musician look

he offers in a

y-but my voice falters. My hands

ath my fingertips. I press one, then another. The notes tumble out-

ike smoke. Then, in the reflection of the piano's polished lid, I see it: a

s flinch. The fire is gone. Only my

inks. "Miss? Ar

standing. "I just-th

but I'm already backin

hts shimmer through fog. I lock the door, lean a

ticle I'd been writing for class: "The Psychology of Recurri

ight. Maybe drea

a new

udy 1: L

s feel i

ts flicker once. In the window's reflection, a faint orange

und, everything

mell of sm

t the windows lon

ina Vale's face flickers behind my eyelids. The resemblance st

top again and

But in an archived article, I find her biography: Seoul Arts Conservatory graduate, winner of the nation

a q

yfriend, Evan Park, a volunteer firefighter

kin prickle. The si

, smoke, a stretcher. Two figures blurred by movement-one kneeling beside it, one being lifted away

ul longing wells

s name out l

ll room like an echo re

rning wood and the deep boom of collapsing beams. My lungs seize from the heat. I smell

old on!

hut. The apartment is silent

happeni

the mirror-half-lit, ghostly. For an instant, I see another version of me over

ing only Lee Mira-twe

mes drawing helps me think. On the first blank page, I start to sketch the

if my hand remembers what my mind doesn't. Wh

piano in the corner, the spiral staircase. And in the top left cor

mber seeing

fication: "Cheongdam Fire: Anniversary Memorial Tomorrow, 10

I can prove something-either that all of this is coinciden

e drawing's lines shimmer faintly in the la

ly. When it finally doe

e blackened, but the piano is untouched, gleaming like new. On top of it sits

he lid snaps open by itself. Inside, two

fire star

ht in my throat and the t

t spilling between gray towers. I glance at the

ade before I can

es a bite sharp enoug

s hiss past like exhaling giants. I clutch a paper cup of coffee in b

orial stone carved with the names of the Cheongdam Fire victims. There was only one name.

A few passers-by bow briefly before hurrying o

cing the eng

me feels too familiar, as if my body

ere," I whisper, "but y

side the stone. At first I think

t, half-buried

t's identical to the

he metal is icy, heavier than it should be. Mud dulls its shine, bu

thunders

side-two faces. The photo is water-damaged, but the outlines are clear eno

mile. I know

e

Park

me dizzy. I drop the locket, then snatch

re you a

is low, steady. I fr

lective stripes of his jacket. The same man from the subway sta

us speaks. Wind rattles the

he's pointing to the spot where it had fallen. His gaze shifts to the locket in my hand,

My voice sounds strange, li

emony every year since the fire. Pe

ears ago," I say befo

arpen. "You

nds. I force a shaky laugh. "No. Just

ks away toward the river. "Yeah. I w

Something in his voice-regret, ma

d the locket until th

rry," I

all, tight sm

es toward it, then back at me. "I have to go." He tur

mmering. The sound of the sire

ain, the locket's l

feels warm-as if