Chapter 1

The building was gone, but the smell lingered.

Charred beams hung like broken ribs in the morning light. Smoke still curled up from the rubble, thin and bitter. Walls that once held laughter, walls that saw lives lived and lives lost, now reduced to blackened memories.

Ezra Calloway walked around the edge of it all, his shoes kicking up the soot of what used to be. He inhaled deeply, the acrid scent of burnt wood cutting through the air. It mingled with something… something older.

The sound of distant voices reached him, hollow echoes of grief and confusion. The block consisted of four buildings, rung around a common courtyard. The other three were unscathed. Parents stood scattered in small clusters, their children clinging to them, eyes wide with confusion and attention. They spoke in hushed tones, eyes darting between the ruin and each other.

They were all waiting for answers that no one had.

Ezra adjusted the manila folder in his hand, stepped over some debris and walked in. The sounds of the world outside—the voices, the children, the whispers of grief—seemed far away now, muffled, easy to tune out. With each step the crunch of shattered glass pierced his ears. He hated this part—walking into a place where everything had been stolen while pretending to have something to offer. His role was simple: mark it, stamp it, move on. No one ever questioned why things burned down. They just asked how much it was worth.

His eyes scanned the hollow space of this carcass, the rooms were empty except for the ghosts. The ceiling sagged where it had once held the weight of families, of quiet evenings, of dishes clinking in the kitchen. Now there was nothing but a thick silence that held the air hostage.

Ezra pulled out his clipboard. The file on the fire was thin, but he didn't think anything of it. He scribbled some notes and carried on, one room after another.

As he turned to leave, a scrap of paper fluttered from the corner of the room. He bent down to pick it up, just a crumpled note. The handwriting was jagged, hurried, barely legible. His eyes traced the words:

They won't believe you. But you'll feel it soon enough.

He folded the note neatly and slipped it in his shirt.

Walking out without turning back, the cold air against his face, Ezra reached into his jacket for his cigarettes and lighter. The lighter clicked, the flame caught, and the first drag settled in his lungs like it belonged there.

He tossed the folder on the passenger seat before climbing into the driver's side. He turned the key, cranked the engine, and tapped ash out the window.

He stared at it, unable to shake the sensation it was calling to him. Opening it up, it was just three pages. Name, date, address. Cause of fire: undetermined. No photos, no background, no signatures. He put it in drive and pulled away, barely aware of the note pressing against his chest, folded in his pocket. He didn't look at it again. Didn't need to.

Traffic moved slow on the way back into the city, the kind of slow that didn't come from congestion so much as hesitation—like no one wanted to be where they were going. Through the open window the air smelled like oil and exhaust, as honest as it was awful.

Ezra parked in the underground garage, took the stairs instead of the elevator. His office was on the fourth floor. It looked like every other office: gray carpet, buzzing lights, a view of nothing. He dropped the folder on his desk without sitting down. Let it lie there. Let someone else decide what to do with it.

He stood at the window for a while, not looking at anything. After a few minutes, he didn't know how long, his stomach began to growl.

The diner was a few blocks from the office, tucked beneath a flickering sign that hadn't been fully lit in years. Just NER now, buzzing like a mosquito. He slid into a booth near the back and didn't bother with a menu. The waitress, gray hair in a tight braid, poured his coffee without asking and walked away without a word. She knew him well enough to leave him be.

He stirred in cream, watched the swirl settle. Still separate but starting to mix. The hum of the place wrapped around him: clinking forks, the soft hiss of the griddle, a radio playing something forgettable through too much static.

Ezra kept his head down, but the feeling came anyway. A weight, just to his right. Not a glance—glances pass. This was heavier, like someone holding their breath and aiming it at him.

He kept his gaze fixed on the cup, not wanting to tip his awareness of it.

The steam rose up and curled, like the smoke from the fire. Like all the smoke, from all the fires. His hands stayed steady, but something else didn't. Somewhere behind him, someone stood up, paused too long, then walked out the door without ordering.

Ezra finally looked up. No one there but the regulars now—heads down, eyes glazed, speaking with monotone voices. He couldn't have said who it was or what they wanted. Only the nagging feeling that they knew him, or at least thought they did.

The waitress came back, slid him a plate of eggs and toast without a word.
"Thanks," he muttered.

She didn't answer. Just walked away, her shoes whispering across the tile.

He ate in what seemed like peace and quiet.

Ezra's apartment was on the third floor of a walk-up that didn't bother with charm. The stairwell smelled like old paint and even older regrets. His key stuck, like always, and the door gave way with a shove and a sigh.

Inside, the air felt still, like the place had been holding its breath in his absence.

One couch, one lamp. A shelf with more dust than books. The kitchen counter held a single plate from yesterday, maybe the day before. He didn't turn on the overhead, just the lamp by the couch, casting long, slow shadows that didn't move unless he did.

He toed off the cheap slip on sneakers that pretended to be dress shoes, shrugged off his coat, and hung it on the same hook he always somehow missed the first time. He stood there, in the middle of the room, not quite sure what would come next.

He turned on the TV. First came the slow internet's swirl of loading, then a flicker of a news anchor, lips moving a half-second off from the words. Something about numbers. Always numbers. Ezra muted it and let the image play on without him.

From the apartment next door, footsteps moved softly across the floor, then stopped. He didn't know the neighbor's name. Had never seen their face. Just the rhythm of their life through the walls—water running, a laugh once, months ago, short and surprised.

He sat down on the couch and pulled the note from his shirt pocket. Held it flat on his knee. The handwriting looked worse in lamplight. Like it had been scrawled by someone running out of time.

They won't believe you. But you'll feel it soon enough.

He stared until the words stopped being words.

Outside, a siren wailed. Not urgent. Just tired.

Ezra leaned back, eyes on the ceiling, reflecting on glances that never quite landed. Another day passed without touching anything.