Page 107 of The Clifftop Cottage

The upper wall blew outward in a violent burst. Masonry cracked. Flame punched into the night.

Everyone dropped instinctively.

A beat of ringing silence followed.

Then the fire settled into a low, hungry roar.

Gabriel pushed himself up slowly.

Everyone was clear.

For once.

The quiet that had fallen over the night was strange – too quiet.

After the ambulance left, after the mother had been confirmed breathing, stable, whisked away to hospital, Gabriel had stayed behind to help with the clean-up.

Back at the station, the adrenaline drained fast.

Hoses coiled. Equipment checked. Paperwork filled. The rhythm of aftermath.

It was a small station, and four of them on shift tonight. No overnight crew. Once the kit was stowed, they’d head home like anyone else finishing late work.

Gabriel scrubbed soot from his hands at the wash basin in the corner. His uniform stank of smoke. He changed into jeans and a jumper, the civilian clothes feeling strange after the weight of the gear.

Outside, the air hit him. Cold. Still.

He didn’t walk home, even though he knew Chep would be there – curled up in his bed by the door, probably dreaming of sheep and toast crusts. Instead, Gabriel turned in the opposite direction, letting the weight of the night pull him forward under street lamps.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. His breath clouded before him.

It could have gone differently.

If Sinclair had been slower.

If he’d committed to that ladder instead of looking across the roofline.

If the blast had come thirty seconds earlier.

You didn’t think about it. Not properly.

But tonight he did.

His sister’s voice surfaced, clear as if she were beside him.

You can’t save everyone, Gabe.

Maybe not.

But he could try.

And if tonight had been it, if the smoke had filled his lungs and that had been the end – what would he have carried with him?

Her.

Not the house. Not the job.

Erica.