There had been laughter once.
Not the fake kind people wear like armor, but something warmer. Real. It echoed through the sunlit halls of the old manor, bouncing off marble and silk and quiet love. A child ran barefoot through it all, his feet thudding across stone with no thought of consequence. His cheeks were dimpled from constant grinning, his dark hair a chaotic crown of curls, his eyes like grey smoke just before a storm.
He was a noble, rich , loved and talented.
He was important, They cared
A boy destined to carry a name heavier than his frame.
He didn't care about that, though.
He cared about the flowers his mother wove into his wristbands.
About the way his father tossed him into the air without fear.
He was happy.
He was five.
And then—
Everything went downhill
---
No thunder warned them.
No shadow crossed the sky.
Just a snap in the air. Like something cracking open.
And then—fire.
The kind that didn't dance or flicker. It howled.
It moved too fast. Not natural. Not kind.
Walls split. Glass burst inward. Magic failed.
The boy didn't scream. Not at first.
He ran. But there was nowhere left to run.
The woman with the lavender scent grabbed him, pressed his face into her chest. She whispered prayers even as her voice broke. A man's silhouette appeared through smoke, shoving a corridor open with raw shadow spilling from his hands—
But the fire ate it. Like it was alive.
Like it knew.
The man tried again. Once. Twice.
And then—
The ceiling caved.
---
He didn't remember the pain. Only the silence afterward.
The weight of ash on his chest. The sting of heat along his side. The way he couldn't breathe, but his body didn't care.
He didn't wake in his home.
He woke in a cold bed, wrapped in too many bandages and none of the warmth he remembered. No mother. No father. No flowers. No tossing games in the air.
Just strange eyes watching him.
"Lucky," they said. "He survived."
But he didn't feel lucky.
He felt empty.
And now he knew the truth. The fire hadn't just taken his home.
It had burned his soul.
---
Years passed.
The boy didn't laugh anymore.
He didn't cry either.
He listened.
He obeyed.
He learned to hide behind fake smirks , hide everything the pain , the hole in his chest with sarcasm.
When he was beaten, he bled quietly. When they asked him to fight, he did.
But behind the grey eyes was still the memory of lavender.
Still the boy with bare feet, running through the halls of a house that no longer existed.
They never found the man who lit the match.
But the boy remembered.
And one day…
The fire would, too.