My father.

The house was warm.

The flooring was wooden, unlike the marble tiles in the other rooms. It wasn’t huge, but the ceilings were high and the fireplace seemed to take up an entire wall. There was always a fire burning. No sharp flames though; only burning coals that perpetually radiated the most satisfying heat that enveloped the other rooms.

The house was sweltering.

The floor was still wooden and there were steps leading up to the room too. The door was heavy and made a colossal clamour when banged shut. The fireplace was smaller, but the flames leapt up and out, licking the cherry-red bricks that lined the hearth and leaving behind a film of despairing ash. Drapes and oxygen were no match for the hungry blaze that devoured everything in its wake.

The house was ablaze.

it was purgatory. Furniture ignited and burned with a resentful, almost vengeful anger. No one could understand why. The inferno roared while the house cried, until there was nothing left. Rain fell on the rubble with a vehement sizzle and life reached out from under the wood.

But when the day grew dark and the moon sank, the floorboards glowed.

 

 

 

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