Burn Scars
1249 Words
The fire tower creaked in the wind that night. Not from danger—just the old bones of timber settling against the push of air. Still, Reese lay awake on her cot, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Sleep had grown elusive.
Something about the quiet had changed.
It wasn’t the wind. Or the temperature. Or even the distant roll of thunder over the ridge.
It was Sky.
And the way they saw her.
She didn’t like it.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The feather was still on her desk, the red thread coiled like a secret. She hadn’t thrown it out. Hadn’t touched it either. Just stared at it like it might whisper something if she waited long enough.
At 2:17 a.m., she gave up pretending she’d sleep and pulled on her boots.
Outside, the night pressed close—dense and starless, the sky clouded over. She descended the steps slowly, hand grazing the cold rail, half expecting Sky to be awake.
They weren’t.
Their tent flap was zipped shut, the faint shape of their body curled beneath the sleeping bag.
For a long moment, Reese just stood there. Watching the rise and fall of breath.
Then, she turned and walked toward the woods.
---
She didn’t have a destination. Only movement.
Her flashlight cut a narrow path through the trees, illuminating moss, fallen branches, and the occasional glint of animal eyes that blinked and vanished. The air was damp, heavy with the promise of more rain.
A hundred yards out, she stopped at a hollowed cedar stump and sat.
There was something safe in being alone with the forest. Something that allowed the weight on her chest to shift—if not lift.
She closed her eyes and let the silence in.
Until a branch cracked behind her.
Reese was up in a breath, flashlight up, body tense.
Sky.
Of course.
They stood with their arms crossed, their face pale in the beam.
“You really need a bell,” Reese muttered.
“You really need to stop wandering off like you don’t have a body that can break,” Sky replied.
Reese lowered the light. “What are you doing here?”
“Could ask you the same.” Sky stepped closer. “I heard your door. Figured either you were sneaking off to howl at the moon… or something was wrong.”
Reese shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Sky didn’t press. They sat down on a fallen log a few feet away, pulling their knees to their chest.
“Sometimes,” they said, “I think this place holds memories. Not just mine. It remembers every fire, every footstep. Every loss.”
Reese sat again, slowly.
“You sound like my grandmother,” she said. “She used to say the land keeps count.”
“Was she right?”
“Maybe. She died in a flood when I was ten. House washed away. I watched it happen from a helicopter.”
Sky flinched.
Reese didn’t look at them. “It was the first time I saw destruction from above. I guess… I never stopped watching from that angle.”
“Is that why you became a lookout?”
Reese nodded. “Easier to feel in control. From a distance.”
Sky was quiet a long time.
Then: “Can I ask you something?”
“No promises.”
“Who did you lose in a fire?”
Reese’s body stiffened.
She almost told them to shut up. To go back to sleep. To mind their damn business.
But something in their voice—something gentle—made her pause.
She reached down and scraped her nails against the bark at her side.
“Her name was Jenna.”
Sky’s breath caught, but they said nothing.
“She was… like me. On the crew. Strong. Smart. Didn’t take s**t from anyone. We’d… known each other for years. But we never said anything. Never admitted what we wanted.”
A breeze stirred the trees.
“She kissed me once,” Reese said. “After a long shift. Said she didn’t care about the rules.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her we had to be careful.”
Sky’s voice was low. “And then?”
Reese closed her eyes. “She went into a canyon alone. I was supposed to go too. But I’d pulled a night shift before, and Command reassigned me to overwatch. She didn’t make it out.”
“I’m sorry,” Sky whispered.
Reese nodded. “So am I.”
Silence. Then Sky’s hand brushed hers. Just barely.
“I don’t think she’d want you to punish yourself forever,” they said.
Reese pulled her hand back.
“Maybe not. But the thing about fire is that it doesn’t care what we want. It just takes.”
---
The next day was dry and quiet, the kind of stillness that felt suspicious. Reese stayed close to the tower, watching weather patterns, mapping soil dryness, and noting down animal movement.
Sky kept their distance.
Until late afternoon, when they appeared on the steps with two mugs of coffee and a hesitant smile.
“Truce?” they asked.
Reese looked up from the map table. “Wasn’t a war.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She gestured toward the second chair. “Fine. Truce.”
Sky handed her the coffee and sat.
A moment passed.
“Why did you really become a photographer?” Reese asked.
Sky blinked at the change in direction but answered.
“My dad. He gave me my first camera when I was eight. Said I saw the world differently. Then, when my brother died, I couldn’t say anything without the world falling apart. But I could show it. Capture it.”
Reese sipped her coffee. “So it was about control.”
Sky’s eyes met hers. “Maybe it was about hope.”
Reese looked away.
Hope wasn’t something she believed in easily.
---
That evening, the power failed briefly. A fuse tripped from a solar battery overload. Reese climbed down to fix it, and Sky followed without asking, holding a lantern against the dusk.
Reese knelt by the electrical box, fingers deft, and practiced.
Sky leaned close. “You ever stop moving?”
“I move, so I don’t think.”
Sky nodded slowly. “And when you do stop?”
“I dream of fire.”
Sky didn’t flinch. Instead, they stepped closer. “You can let yourself feel something, Reese. Even if it’s just for a second.”
Reese straightened, the box humming to life.
Their faces were inches apart.
The lantern flickered.
Sky’s breath was warm.
Reese froze. Her heart ached from holding too much for too long.
And for the first time in years, she let herself want.
Just a little.
Their lips met—not urgent, not desperate.
Tentative.
Searching.
Sky’s hands were gentle on her jaw, and Reese felt herself lean in.
Then, just as quickly, she pulled away.
“I can’t.”
Sky stepped back. “Okay.”
“I mean it,” Reese said, voice cracking. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“I’m not trying to save you,” Sky said softly. “I’m just trying to see you.”
Reese turned, staring at the darkened treetops.
“I’m not ready to be seen.”
---
That night, Sky didn’t come back to the tower.
And Reese didn’t sleep.
Again.
---
- Writer
