Mira'

't left my hand

. Every time I brush against it, the metal seems to pulse faintl

leed into the present. But the smell of smoke still

ehavioral conditioning. I take no notes. My mind is elsewhere: the

s old and quiet, the kind of place where sound folds itself away. I sit in a

ame reports I've already read

stigation-Preliminary R

ritten notes from some anonymous bureaucrat. I scroll past the formalities-cause of

cted line under w

rior to 23:00 hours; noted unusual noise precedin

ele

t tightens. I scroll further down. Under "Primary Respon

nterview transcript. Just his name, and a

air creaking. Someo

. A dull headache blooms behind my eyes. I close the

ettles like a

sy excuse for being there: an "academic project on psychological trauma." Th

o?" he says. "

ccess to the p

ing office. "Ask Miss Go downs

an in thick glasses peers up from a mountain of file

ee the c

uld be public record

fluorescent lights grows louder. I trace my fingers along

pty. "That's strange. The report's

d out?

ed. Probably a senior officer revi

er of unease sticks under my skin

d blurs against the fog-liquor signs, traffic lights, the electric pu

es at a light. My eyes catch on the figure leaning against it

v

ay. His expression softens, like h

ach, "seem to show up whene

d say t

is mouth curves

ou were the first responder

s. "You've bee

n traumatic recall. Cases where victims-o

doesn't quite believ

burn away," I say bef

es, looking toward the traffic. "You

es

voice. "Then don't trust the

jumps. "Inc

ightens. "There was gasoline. Traces of it in the piano room. We sent

nis

made it d

up my arms. "Wh

dable. "That's what I tried to find out.

erred,"

e too fast. Then, softer: "Sometimes things

he climbs into the truck, he pauses, glances back at me. "Sta

and the truck vanis

n't leav

use stares up at me. I flip to a new page and begin a new sketch-Evan's face, lit by the phantom

e. Behind him, in the faint shading of smoke, another shape f

't dra

ld. I close the

layouts, and fire patterns. By dawn, my room looks like a detective's board: printout

earliest report ca

wiring behind east wall piano. House originall

hit

Kim Dae-jin, deceased 2019, two months after the fi

area-high-end, custom-built. One image makes my breath hitch. The façade is identical

le Fou

Seoul. Only one hit: a corporate registry entry m

Western.

embezzlement but cleared. The article's photo shows a smiling older man in a ta

caption makes my

cital for the Seoul Ar

chool Lina

rand piano. On the lid-a faint engraving

a

o violently I near

digy. She was connected to money, influence,

iver a sheet of steel. Following an old map, I find the street where Lina's house once stood. N

undation still etched in the dirt. The wind shifts,

s, and the wor

er name. Footsteps on the stairs. A door slamming shu

've stayed

it the pavement. When I open my eyes, the world is gr

in the ashes, whis

orers, I discover a thread about abandoned houses in Gangnam. One user posts: "Old

oto shows a door half-buried in debris, a scorc

er. Hours pass b

. But if you must, take a fl

any

louds. My flashlight beam trembles as I slip through a gap in the wire.

arped, but real. The lock dangles us

ing chemical. My light sweeps across blackened wall

like trespassin

, half-melted, shaped like a nameplate. I wipe away the soot. T

t initials scrat

's paper fused beneath it-half a photograph,

but I recognize the curve of a shoulder, the line of a smile

o

an. The jaw's different, the eyes colder. Someone els

at the bottom a

e truth

hlight f

ent-a shadow crossing behind the charred staircase. The beam

hurry out, the door clanging shut behind m

inst a lamppost. My chest seizes until I re

loom. "You shouldn't be

es. "Were you

t away. "You really do

eports were incomplete," I

ight. "You don't understand

the photograph from my pocket and

face drains of color. "

. Beneath

rgent. "Mira, listen to me. If you f

he

the muscles in his jaw tight

ws near the curb. Evan curses under his breath, grabs my wrist, and

p, I'm gasping. "Wh

shadowed. "The reas

t tr

fire wasn't meant to kill one perso

my chest like a spa

es at the screen, his express

ai

u do, don't trust anyone from th

swallowed by the

umming around me, the loc

ged. The background is now flames, and beneath the burn

ome b