The call came in just before dawn—structure fire, residential, icy conditions, possible entrapment.

I was out of bed before the alarm even finished wailing. The frost clung to the windows like spiderwebs, the world outside tinted blue and lifeless. My breath clouded the air as I pulled on my gear, the chill already setting into my bones.

The fire truck growled to life beneath a pale, colorless sky. Snow whipped past the windshield as we barreled toward the scene. Beside me, Rafe was silent—focused. I tried to mimic his calm, but my fingers trembled inside my gloves.

The house was a two-story on the edge of a frozen ravine. Black smoke curled against the white dawn. Flames licked from the back porch, eating their way inside.

"Kids may be trapped upstairs," a deputy yelled over the wind. "Mom got out—barefoot, screaming about her babies!"

I was already moving before Harris could assign teams. My boots skidded across a patch of ice as I followed Rafe around the side. The front steps were a death trap, already iced over. He went in through a broken window—glass crunching under his weight. I hesitated.

Smoke coiled out toward me, and with it came a smell I hadn't expected: pine wood. Burning, snapping, popping.

And then—a scream.
Not from the fire. Not from the house.
From somewhere deeper. Older.

The air turned tight around my chest. My heart pounded louder than the siren. I blinked, and for a split second, the scene warped—orange flame replaced by flickering candlelight. A childhood memory slammed into me: dark stairs, a man yelling, my mother's tears—

"Celeste!"

Rafe's voice cut through the static in my head. I snapped back to the present. I was still on the lawn. Still frozen. My legs refused to move. I couldn't breathe.

A shape appeared in the smoke—Rafe, hauling a coughing boy in one arm, eyes wild as he looked for me.

"You coming?" he yelled, throat raw.

I forced a nod and stumbled toward him, the ice biting through my boots, my body screaming to run the other way. But I followed.

Inside, it was worse. Heat met cold in sharp bursts. I helped him pull the second child from a closet. The girl clung to my neck, whimpering. My shaking hands held firm. Somehow.

When we got outside, the mother collapsed with relief, sobbing into the snow. Rafe handed off the boy and turned to me.

"What happened in there?" he asked, voice low.

I opened my mouth but couldn't answer. Not fully. Not yet.

"Don't do that again," he added, eyes searching mine. "You froze. I needed you."

His words landed like a slap—but not in anger. In truth. In care.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the shame thick on my tongue.

Rafe stepped closer, steam rising from his soaked gear. His voice softened. "You're not made of stone, Celeste. But next time... don't let the past steal your present."

As the snow began to fall harder, I realized the cold hadn't just come from the outside. It had been inside me all along.

But maybe now—maybe—it could start to melt.