The sun rose that morning, but it carried no warmth for James. The house was quiet, too quiet for a home that once echoed with laughter.
He sat in the garden, his shirt half unbuttoned, and his face rough with days of unshaven grief.
Work had long become a stranger to him. Papers from the office lay unopened on the table inside; he no longer cared.
Beside him, a small plate overflowed with cigarette butts. The smoke hung thick in the air, mixing with the smell of whiskey spilling from the glass in his hand.
He lifted it, his eyes bloodshot, and drank the last drop as though it could drown the ache eating at his chest.
Then he closed his eyes and saw her.
Sarah.
The fire. Her hand reaching out, her voice lost in the roar of the flames.
He saw himself screaming her name, trying to
