Clara Dee Fuego 〈Free Access〉

Her grandmother.

It listens.

She burned her fear of being alone.

And somewhere in the salt flat crater, a shard of black glass still pulses with a faint, violet light. Waiting. Because fire, even the good kind, never truly dies. clara dee fuego

Clara's hands did not shake. That was the horror. They were perfectly still. Her grandmother

Not her grandmother. Not the room. Not the Conflagration. violet light. Waiting. Because fire