In the beginning, I guess... there was nothing? My memory has always been flawed when it comes to what life was like before... Were there birds? Maybe blue skies?

Yes, that’s it... I first remember the birds. Watching them from my window. My mom was always amazed at that."You’re the only child that can stand still for so long just to watch a few birds. How can you like it so much?" she used to say. I just did. And I still do. I guess I remember them, too.

I remember the house—full of saints, colors, and smells. Kind of remember, to be honest... God, I’m losing the memory of their faces, their scent, their voices.

It’s not strange that it’s happening—it’s been a long time, after all. It’s just painful. But... how come I remember the birds so well?

Sure, I know about repressed memories, and that was before... Anyway, I remember the hearth and the praying. There was an awful lot of praying, but at least we would go out for popsicles afterward.

Dad didn’t care if I made a mess, nor that they were just expensive colored water with sugar... I remember Mom saying that, either way, we would all be happy on our way home from the hearth.

Then there are blanks... And a few other things... There was a doll, sort of old-fashioned, part ugly and part smelly. Pretty much no one made toys anymore, so that was a great treasure.

Can’t remember her name for the life of me. There was gardening, too. Strangely, I liked it enough to put the doll aside and face the sun. Dad and I had a blast.

Gosh, I had completely forgotten his favorite thing to say... how was it... “Cheers!… to the first ones to go and to the ones who grow.”

After one Christmas, I asked them not to box up the gigantic, plastic nativity scene figures. I liked to play with them and create stories. The Flame’s friends, I think they were called.

Oh, the vegetable wars—that’s for SURE engraved in stone in my head! Mom was really serious about me eating them. She was so protective. Dad would help by saying it was hard enough to grow them, so I should be grateful for it.

Food aside, I had to dress a certain way, too... I didn’t love it, but everything has new colors when you’re young. What I didn’t like was that the boys could wear whatever they wanted... except for the hearth, of course.

Especially when there were people at home. After eating, Mom would excuse us, and we’d stay in the kitchen while everyone else (meaning the boys and men) talked and laughed in the living room.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

But the worst, my true nemesis, really was... the kitchen! Ha, stupid girl... Of course, I never did anything alone, to be honest... but I really hated it.

Funny how much I wished to participate in the conversations, to be part of society as I knew it. Even if they were always talking about the same things. The hearth, the Flame, the prayers, the Paxxers, or something else related.

Matter of fact, there was a huge portrait of the Flame in the living room. And so our family life hushed through years of emberness, as they called that uneventful and ignorant routine.

That is until... actually, I’m not sure when it started. I think they hid it from me for a while. But Dad got sick. That changed everything.

Starting with the weirdest of all things: my uncle moved in with us. I didn’t even know he existed. There were no pictures of him, no signs—no one had ever talked about him.

My dad and my uncle were always together after that, except for the hearth—uncle didn’t go. But they were always chatting, sometimes even laughing. It was an event in itself. He had a lot of stuff, a lot of opinions, and couldn’t have been more different than my parents.

Still, the house got happier for a while. Definitely fuller. And then there was even more praying. At the same time, the tidy house I knew started to resemble a messy pharmacy.

I wasn’t just sad for my dad; I was mostly scared of what was happening... Of course, I was a child, and things aren’t perceived as they are, or as they should be. In a heartbeat, he transformed into a thin version of himself, which scared me to death.

Especially on the not-so-rare occasions when they had to rush to the hospital. I used to go to my room and quietly cry myself to sleep. It happened quite a few times, usually after dinner, when we were doing our chores in the kitchen, and suddenly, Mom would have to rush off.

She’d quickly jump in the car with him and storm off... no one explained exactly what was happening, or at least I didn’t understand.

After I insisted a bit—maybe asked too many questions—they decided to take me one time... after arriving at the hospital, not much happened. No one spoke to us for hours. It was quite depressing. Mom would be sad and stressed. Uncle would try to help with a few words, but they’d fall flat in the moment.

These events became more frequent, and I could see Mom was exhausted, falling apart. Trying to keep up with the house, with me, with him. Oh god, if I could just hug her now.

Meanwhile, my uncle was a silent companion for my dad—he never left his side. But the laughter and conversations dried up. There was just a solitary sadness between them. One for dying, the other for watching.

I was already in bed the night it happened. I think I remember seeing the lights turn on. Then silence. Then noise and lights again, until I fell asleep, tired and scared. They let me sleep late the next day… until my uncle, with the saddest face I had ever seen, came to wake me up.

I was in my teens. In my early teens, and still, they made me do it. My uncle was there—he could have done it. He even asked to and argued as much as you can with those people... but no one dared to question SMOKES' orders.

"The daughter has to do it. You’re no Ember. Question me one more time, and I'll throw you in jail," I heard them say.

So I did. I stared at them and said their names. And just like that, they were no more. And I... I was an orphan in a sick, sick world.

I had to identify their bodies. A teenage daughter had to see the corpses of her parents. That was the first time the Embers' inhumane fires hurt me. But surely not the last.