My Hope

Who's Knocking

The flames crackled louder outside, but inside our little house, it was dead quiet. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel peaceful, but heavy—like the air itself was holding its breath.

Mama stepped back from the door, her face pale in the dim light. Her eyes, usually calm and warm like late summer rain, looked hard and distant.

“It’s not here yet,” she whispered, pulling the heavy bolt across the door with deliberate slowness. It scraped into place with a loud metallic clank. “But we stay ready.”

I nodded, my arms wrapped tightly around Cherry. Her soft, trembling body was pressed against my chest. I could feel the quick flutter of her heart through her fur, like the beat of hummingbird wings. Mine was no better—hammering against my ribs like it wanted to break free.

We backed away from the door slowly, like the floor itself might collapse beneath us. The old wooden panels creaked softly under Mama’s slippers, echoing too loudly in the tense silence. My own feet felt glued to the ground, like even the carpet didn’t want to let go of me.

The living room was filled with shadows—the TV screen still frozen on a cartoon I’d forgotten was playing. Bright colors flickered across the screen in silence, ridiculous in contrast to the chaos outside. A laughing character held a balloon, its string twitching on a loop, oblivious to the world burning around it.

I crept to the front window, careful not to let Cherry wriggle free from my arms. I peeked through a crack in the curtain, pressing my cheek to the cold glass.

Outside, the streets were a mess.

People ran in every direction, some barefoot, others clutching family members. Some screamed for water. Others just screamed. Mothers dragging their crying children by the hands, shouting names. A man with a bleeding forehead stumbled past, clutching a scorched blanket to his chest like it held his last memory. A woman dropped to her knees in the street, sobbing, and no one stopped.

The sky, once blue and soft, had turned the color of rusted iron. Ash floated through the air like snow—if snow could choke you. Smoke twisted around the rooftops like fingers reaching down to snatch everything away.

The smoke was already creeping in under our front door, curling like a living thing across the floor, thin and pale at first, but growing darker with every passing second.

“What do we do?” I asked, my voice barely more than a breath. My mouth was dry. My lips stuck together.

Mama didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she walked to the kitchen and pulled open one of the drawers. It stuck for a moment—swollen from humidity and years of disuse—but she yanked it free. Inside was a second-old bag, more worn than the first, packed tight with cans, bottles of water, and even a flashlight wrapped in a towel. A small radio peeked out from under a packet of crackers.

“You packed this… before,” I said, the realization creeping into my voice. She hadn’t just hoped for the best—she had planned for the worst.

She nodded grimly, the lines around her eyes deepening. “In case the world outside got worse before it got better,” she said. “And it just did.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I wanted to say something comforting, something strong. But I couldn’t find any words that didn’t sound like a lie.

Cherry meowed weakly and nuzzled into my neck, her little nose cold and damp. I felt her shiver, and it sent a jolt straight down my spine. Even she could sense what was coming.

“We stay low,” Mama said, moving with practiced focus. She turned on the faucet, which hissed and spat before giving a weak stream of water. She grabbed a towel and soaked it, then handed it to me. “Cover your face if the smoke comes in. Breathe through this.”

I took it without hesitation. The towel was heavy and cold in my hands, smelling faintly of lemon soap. I tied it around the bottom half of my face like she’d taught me in drills. Her voice echoed in my head: Always stay calm. Always think before you move.

She picked up another towel and did the same.

The fire hadn’t reached us, but the heat… the heat was coming. It moved through the walls like a slow, burning tide, pressing against the house like the breath of a dragon waiting to exhale. The wallpaper near the window had started to bubble in tiny spots. Paint peeled silently in the hallway.

Then—

A loud bang shook the door.

I screamed and stumbled back, clutching Cherry tighter. She let out a yowl and leapt from my arms, bolting under the bed in the hallway, her tail bushy with fear.

Mama froze.

Another bang, louder this time.

The door jolted, the bolt straining against the wood.

Someone—or something—was pounding against it, hard. Desperate. I could feel the thuds in the floorboards beneath my bare feet.

My breath caught in my throat. My lungs locked. I backed away further, bumping into the edge of the couch.

Was it a survivor? A neighbor?

Or something worse?

Mama’s jaw clenched. She grabbed the knife I had dropped earlier and stood between me and the door, her knuckles white, her body squared. Her eyes flicked to me for just a second.

And then—

A voice.

“Open up!” a man shouted hoarsely, coughing mid-sentence.

“Please! Please help me!”

I looked at Mama, eyes wide, pleading.

We couldn’t leave someone outside to die.

Could we?

She didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched thin between us. My heart thudded loudly in my ears.

The man shouted again, this time with a rasp. “There’s nowhere else! Please, it’s coming—I can’t outrun it!”

Mama’s lips pressed into a line. She moved like a soldier, quick and silent, stepping toward the window to peek through the side curtain. Her movements were precise, but I could see her chest rising faster now. She wasn’t calm. She was calculating.

She pressed her face to the glass and peered out through the smoke.

I held my breath.

“One man,” she murmured. “No weapon. Bleeding. Looks young. Maybe early twenties. Alone.”

My hands clenched at my sides.

“Should we—?”

Mama raised her hand to stop me. “If he’s lying, if this is a trick…”

I shook my head. “It’s not. Mama, I can hear it in his voice.”

Her eyes met mine. I saw fear in them—but also something fiercer.

“Get Cherry. Stay by the hallway. If I tell you to run, you grab the bag and go out the back window. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

She unbolted the door with slow, steady fingers. Every second stretched like a thread about to snap.

The door creaked open an inch.

The man fell through it.

He collapsed on the floor with a ragged gasp, coughing and clutching his side. Smoke poured in behind him.

Mama slammed the door and bolted it again. Her knife was still in her hand, but she didn’t move to strike.

The man lay panting on the floor, his hands raised in surrender. His shirt was torn, and blood stained his jeans from a wound near his knee.

"Thank you,” he rasped. “I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

Mama didn’t answer him. She stood over him like a sentinel, breathing hard, watching for any twitch, any wrong move.

I watched too, my towel still wrapped around my face. My chest rose and fell fast. Cherry peeked from under the hallway bed, her eyes wide and green.

Outside, the fire crackled closer.