The tremor rolled through the house like a heartbeat; dust fell from the rafters, and every board groaned as if something underneath was drawing breath.
Luke caught Iris's arm before she could fall. Between the split planks below, orange light pulsed—steady, rhythmic. Not wildfire. A pulse.
"The heart," Iris whispered.
They knelt at the edge of the gap. The light was stronger now, flaring in time with the thump in Luke's chest. When he leaned closer he could hear it, faint but distinct—a low human sound woven through the crackling: someone whispering.
He couldn't make out the words, but the tone was pleading.
Iris gripped his sleeve. "It's calling for me."
"No," he said. "It's luring you."
The floor shifted again. A narrow stairway revealed itself, spiraling down into the glow. Warm air rushed upward, carrying the smell of burned cedar and salt—like the sea and smoke at once.
Luke reached for a flashlight, but when he clicked it on, the beam warped; the batteries melted in seconds. The fire didn't want light—it wanted darkness.
They went down anyway.
At the bottom, the stairs opened into a cavern that shouldn't have existed. The foundation was gone; in its place stretched a chamber of glass and charred roots. In the center rose a heart of flame, suspended above a pool of molten ash. Its surface shifted constantly—sometimes beating like muscle, sometimes turning smooth as mirrored glass.
Iris stepped forward, entranced. "It's alive."
Luke moved to stop her, but the moment her reflection touched the surface of the heart, the chamber brightened, and scenes spilled across the walls—memories.
Ashmere Hill before the fire. Emma's laughter. The circle of candles. The promise.
Then came others Luke didn't recognize—Lucien kneeling before an altar, townspeople raising torches, a hundred years of fire and rebirth. The same spirit repeating its ritual through different lives.
Iris turned to him, eyes glowing like twin coals. "It's not evil. It's… memory itself. It keeps what people can't bear to lose."
Luke shook his head. "It destroys everything it touches."
"It destroys what forgets."
The heart pulsed violently. The images shifted again, now showing Luke himself closing the door on the night of the fire—the moment he'd sealed Emma inside.
He staggered back. "That's not how it happened."
The fire whispered through the chamber:
"Memory never lies. Only the living do."
Iris looked at him—half-Emma, half-flame. "This is why it brought me back. To make you remember."
Luke felt the heat crawl up his throat. "Then tell me how to stop it."
"By forgiving it," she said softly, "or by feeding it."
The heart expanded, stretching toward them, a single tendril of living fire reaching out like a hand. It hovered between them, waiting for one of them to decide.
Luke's breath hitched. "If I take it—?"
"It dies with you," Iris said. "If I take it—"
Her voice faltered. The flame answered for her, whispering in her tone:
"Then we live forever."
The chamber trembled. They were out of time.
Luke reached for her hand. "Whatever happens, we choose together."
Iris nodded once, tears cutting clean lines through the soot on her face.
"Together."
They stepped forward—into the blaze.