Chapter 4: Ashes and Apologies

---

Chapter Three

That day, I ran frantically toward the school.

I don't remember driving—just the blur of red lights, my foot slamming the gas, ignoring every speed limit and stop sign in town.

The desperate sprint left me gasping for air; my legs hadn't felt that sore in years.

I parked half on the curb, bolted from the car, and tore across the school lawn, dodging fire hoses and police tape. My chest felt like it was about to explode.

But I was still too late.

The crowd of parents was already gathered, faces twisted with fear. A firefighter blocked my way, but I shouted Tyler's name until my voice cracked.

All I found was a billowing cloud of smoke.

Thick, acrid, suffocating. It coated my throat, stung my eyes. I could taste the ashes with every breath.

And a classroom that no longer resembled a classroom.

The walls were blackened, windows blown out. Desks melted into unrecognizable shapes. It looked nothing like the place I'd visited for parent-teacher conferences.

I waited at the classroom door for a full ten hours.

Paramedics offered me blankets, bottles of water I couldn't swallow. I didn't move. I just sat on the curb, staring at that ruined door, hoping for a miracle that never came.

Only then did I finally see my son's charred body.

They tried to keep me from looking, but I pushed past them. I needed to see. I needed to know.

That's right, we lost him forever.

My mind refused to accept it, even as the world collapsed around me. I reached out, but there was nothing left to hold onto. My fingers twitched uselessly in the air, grasping for a hand that would never reach back.

I'll never forget the way my ex-wife cried until she nearly fainted.

Her scream cut through the chaos, raw and animal. Neighbors rushed to hold her up, but I was useless, rooted to the spot.

That night, I didn't go home; I just sat across from the ashes for a long, long time.

The parking lot emptied, night deepened, and still I stayed. The streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows over the burned-out shell. I watched the embers fade, one by one.

The classmates who had snuck out with my son to go to the gaming lounge were spared, simply because they weren't in the classroom.

I heard their parents crying with relief, hugging their boys close, never letting go. The guilt burned hotter than any fire.

But by some cruel twist of fate, I caught him and sent him back to the scene of the fire.

If I'd just walked on, kept my head down, everything would be different. I replayed that moment so many times, wishing I could take it back.

If I hadn't done that, would he have survived?

Maybe he'd be in college now, texting me about finals, asking for gas money, complaining about cafeteria food.

In other words, it was I, with my own hands, who pushed my son toward death.

It's a truth I tried to deny, but it always found me in the quiet moments—at red lights, in the shower, staring at old photos.

That night, I left 56 cigarette butts at the classroom door, but I still couldn't make sense of it all.

I counted each one, hoping that somehow, if I smoked enough, I'd fill the emptiness inside me. The janitor never asked, just swept them away in the morning.