Ashes Never Forget
1152 Words
Some people wake up because of sunlight.
I woke up because of the fire.
Every.
Single.
Night.
Smoke clawed at my lungs.
The ceiling groaned above me.
Heat licked my skin.
"Daddy!"
No answer.
Only flames.
The floor beneath my feet cracked open as if the house itself was screaming.
I stumbled through the hallway.
The walls bled orange.
My mother's favorite vase shattered beside me.
"Daddy!"
Then...
I saw him.
Lying motionless in the study.
One arm stretched toward me.
His fingers trembled.
Not reaching for help.
Reaching for me.
A shadow stepped over his body.
Black leather.
Heavy boots.
A silver skull patch stitched across a rain-soaked vest.
The man slowly lifted his head.
His face hidden beneath smoke.
Only his eyes remained.
Cold.
Watching.
Watching me.
Then—
The shadow raised a pistol.
I screamed.
I bolted upright.
My chest burned as though I'd truly inhaled smoke.
The room was dark except for pale moonlight spilling through the curtains.
For a few seconds...
I couldn't tell which world was real.
The bedroom...
Or the fire.
A soft knock echoed from outside my door.
Three knocks.
Slow.
Measured.
Not urgent.
Not afraid.
I knew who it was before he spoke.
"You screamed."
Damien.
His voice carried through the wood, quiet enough that no one else would hear.
"I'm fine."
A lie.
"You don't sound fine."
"I said I'm fine."
Silence.
Then...
"I left tea outside the door."
I closed my eyes.
Why?
Why did he keep doing things like this?
"I don't want your pity."
His answer came after a long pause.
"It isn't pity."
"Then what is it?"
Another silence.
When he finally spoke, his voice was almost too soft to hear.
"It's a promise."
Footsteps faded down the hallway.
I didn't move.
Not until I was certain he was gone.
When I opened the door...
A steaming mug rested on the floor.
Beside it...
A small paper bag.
Inside were two blueberry muffins.
Still warm.
I stared at them.
Then, against every instinct telling me not to...
I cried.
Not because of the tea.
Not because of the muffins.
Because I couldn't remember the last time someone had noticed I was hurting without asking for anything in return.
The next morning...
The clubhouse smelled of coffee and engine oil.
Laughter drifted from the kitchen.
Someone argued about pancakes.
Another complained that Ace had eaten all the bacon.
Normal.
Ridiculously normal.
It made me angry.
How could these people laugh?
How could they smile?
Didn't they know what they were?
What they had taken from me?
I crossed the garage, my boots echoing against the concrete.
Damien stood beside a black Harley, sleeves rolled up, grease staining his hands as he adjusted the engine.
No entourage.
No bodyguards.
Just him.
Working.
Like any ordinary mechanic.
I walked straight toward him.
"We need to talk."
Without looking up, he answered.
"I know."
He tightened one last bolt before wiping his hands on a rag.
Only then did he meet my eyes.
"You found the ledger."
"You knew I would."
"I did."
"What is L.F.?"
He held my gaze.
"A promise."
"My father's?"
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I can't answer that."
"You won't answer."
"They're different."
"No, they're not."
"They are."
His calmness shattered the fragile restraint I'd been clinging to.
"I am done with your riddles!"
The wrench in my hand slammed against the workbench with a deafening clang.
Every conversation in the garage stopped.
Every biker turned.
"I watched my mother die!"
My voice cracked.
"I watched my father bleed to death!"
No one moved.
"I spent fifteen years learning how to kill because everyone told me one man destroyed my family."
My breathing became ragged.
"I gave up birthdays."
"Told no one my real name."
"I buried who I was."
"I became someone I don't even recognize anymore."
Tears blurred my vision.
"And now you expect me to believe..."
My voice broke.
"...that everything I sacrificed..."
"...was for nothing?"
The silence that followed felt endless.
Damien didn't interrupt.
Didn't defend himself.
Didn't ask me to calm down.
He simply stood there.
Taking every word.
Every accusation.
As though he believed he deserved them.
Finally...
He spoke.
"I know."
I laughed bitterly.
"No."
"You don't."
His gray eyes never left mine.
"I know exactly what revenge costs."
Something inside me snapped.
I reached beneath my jacket.
Pulled out the pistol.
Gasps echoed around the garage.
Ace moved.
Damien lifted one finger.
Ace froze.
I aimed the gun directly at Damien's heart.
The garage fell deathly silent.
No one breathed.
No one dared move.
"Do it," Damien said quietly.
My finger trembled on the trigger.
He took one slow step toward me.
"If killing me will bring them back..."
Another step.
"...pull the trigger."
The barrel pressed against his chest now.
He looked down at the gun.
Then back into my eyes.
No fear.
No anger.
Only unbearable sadness.
"I won't stop you."
The room disappeared.
All I could see was my father's blood.
My mother's scream.
The burning house.
Fifteen years of hatred.
Fifteen years of training.
Fifteen years leading to this moment.
My finger tightened.
Just one more ounce of pressure.
One bullet.
One heartbeat.
One dead devil.
Then—
A little girl laughed outside.
Clear.
Bright.
Innocent.
Through the open garage doors, I saw a child racing across the courtyard with a toy motorcycle in her hands while two bikers chased after her, pretending to lose.
The sound hit me like lightning.
Because for a heartbeat...
She looked exactly like me.
Nine years old.
Before the fire.
Before the hatred.
Before revenge became my entire life.
The gun grew heavier.
My arm began to shake.
And for the first time in fifteen years...
I couldn't pull the trigger.
Damien never looked away.
He spoke so softly that only I could hear.
"You don't want revenge anymore."
A tear slipped down my cheek.
"No."
My voice was barely a whisper.
"I just want my family back."
The pistol slipped from my fingers.
It struck the concrete with a metallic clang.
No one moved.
Damien looked at the gun.
Then at me.
His own eyes glistened—not with tears he allowed to fall, but with grief he had carried far too long.
He bent down, picked up the pistol, removed the engraved bullet, and placed it gently in my trembling palm.
The single word etched into the brass caught the morning light.
Damien.
He closed my fingers around it.
"You've been carrying this for fifteen years."
His voice was rough now.
"Keep it."
I frowned through my tears.
"...Why?"
He stepped back.
Because the distance between us had never felt greater.
Or more fragile.
"When you finally learn the truth..."
His gaze held mine.
"...if you still believe I deserve to die..."
He turned and walked away.
"I'll hand you the gun myself."
He never looked back.
- Writer
