April 9th, just past 10 p.m. I was half-asleep, sprawled on my bed, when a strange flicker caught my eye. Orange light shimmered against the walls — not steady like streetlights, but wild, like something alive. I rose. Drawn by unease, and pushed open the window.

In that instant, the night erupted.

A thunderous explosion shattered the silence, and fire burst inward with terrifying force. Flames engulfed the room, roaring like a beast unleashed — then, just as suddenly, it was yanked back as if inhaled by the darkness itself.

I didn’t think — there was no time. I snatched what little I could, I could feel my heart pounding, and ran. The corridor was a choking tunnel of smoke and confusion. Every breath burned.

I don’t know how I made it out. But somehow, through the fire, the blackness, and the chaos, I escaped into the night.


They told me I was lucky to survive.

But they don’t understand — I lost my life that night.

Not my body, no. But everything that is me — my art, my words, the stories I’d spent years shaping — gone. My films, my scripts, my sketches and storyboards, all of it turned to ash in seconds.

What remains now exists only in fragments, flickering inside my mind like fading embers. No paper trail. No backups. Just memory — fragile, unreliable — trying to hold onto what the fire tried to erase.

And the small samples that remain, remain detached from my me, my heart, my life.