The Fireplace

The fireplace is filled with embers that burn low, glowing blood-orange beneath gray ashes. Whomever left it like this must have incredible home-insurance; what a fire risk.

You run a hand over the mantelpiece, expecting dust in spite of the fire burning inside, but the wood is clean. As you swipe your hand across, your fingers bump against a downturned picture frame. You lift it up.

Inside the frame is a blurry photograph. It looks like a figure, potentially a feminine one, standing before what appears to be this house. The longer you squint at the photograph, trying to make out the features of the poorly exposed image, the more blurry it becomes. It’s as if the figure in the foreground is disappearing and the house is coming further into view, slowly zooming in. You replace the frame, face down, where you found it.

A log pops, sending piece of charcoal, still burning, down onto the hearth. You kick it back into the fireplace with the toe of your shoe and notice a thin stack of singed papers tucked into the corner of the fireplace. Ash has been swept up over it, but one of the corners is within reach and you nab it, wiggle it out. The papers are only half-intact, so you brush off the ash and try to read them. Most of the writing is illegible, but you can make out some things here and there.

The address is

Remember

Find

Your name

Rose

Date

You toss the papers back down onto the hearth and shove them back into place with your toe.

You feel as if there’s something left to look for.