She believed flames could erase the past. That by tossing the letters into the fire, she could silence the truth forever. But fate had other plans—and so did I.
Before the blaze consumed them all, I found one. A single, trembling page tucked beneath the stack. It wasn’t just ink and paper—it was confession, betrayal, and revelation. Her handwriting, once elegant, now frantic. The letter spoke of a love hidden, a lie sustained, and a choice that shattered lives. She had buried the truth for years, cloaked in smiles and silence. But guilt has a way of leaking through the cracks.
The fire roared, but it was too late. I had already read the one that mattered.
She thought she was protecting someone. Maybe herself. Maybe him. But secrets don’t die in flames—they rise from them. That letter didn’t just expose her—it exposed me. Because I wasn’t just a bystander. I was the reason she wrote it.
Now I carry the weight of what I know. And she carries the fear of what I might do with it.
The fire was meant to be an ending. But it became a beginning.
