Skip to content 
The fire had started two nights ago.
At first, it was just smoke in the distance—thin, uncertain, almost easy to ignore. The kind of thing people notice, comment on briefly, and then return to their routines. But by midnight, the wind had shifted. By morning, the hills beyond the village were burning.
By afternoon, the fire had a voice.
It roared.
It devoured dry grass, olive trees, abandoned sheds—anything that dared stand in its path. The air thickened with ash, the sky turned a bruised orange, and the smell… the smell settled into everything. Clothes, skin, breath.
People began to leave.
Some packed ars with whatever they could carry. Others fled on foot, clutching children and bags, calling out to neighbors, shouting directions no one could follow. Sirens wailed somewhere far off, but they sounded small compared to the fire.
Yassine had stayed.
At first, because he believed it would pass.
Then, because he had nowhere to go.
He stood now in the dim kitchen, pouring water into a dented metal cup. His hands were steady, but his chest felt tight, as though something inside him was slowly winding itself too tight to breathe.
There was a knock on the door.
Three quick hits.
He opened it to find Hamid, his neighbor, already dressed, already sweating.
“It’s closer,” Hamid said without greeting. “The road to the east is gone. Completely blocked.”
Yassine nodded once. “The west road?”
“Still open. But not for long.” Hamid glanced past him, toward the room where the girls slept. “You need to go now.”
“I will.”
Hamid hesitated. “Come with us. We have space in the truck. Not much, but enough for the three of you.”
Yassine looked down at his hands.
“I can’t,” he said quietly.
Hamid’s face tightened. “You still think you can save it?”
“It’s not about the house.”
“Then what?”
Yassinedidn’t answer.
Because the truth sounded foolish, even in his own mind.
Because the truth was that he had made a promise.
He had built the fir—what remained of it—with his own hands.
It wasn’t really a fir tree, not in the traditional sense. It was a structure, a frame of old wood beams and branches tied together, shaped like a narrow shelter against the hillside behind the house. Years ago, before Lina was born, he had used it as a storage space. Later, it became something else.
A refuge.
During storms, the girls would run there, laughing as rain hammered the roof. During summer afternoons, it became their secret fort, filled with stories and imaginary kingdoms. Yassine had reinforced it over time, adding layers of clay and stone, insulating it as best he could.
It was the only place he trusted.
The only place he believed might withstand what was coming.
“Yassine,” Hamid said again, more urgently now. “Listen to me. Fire doesn’t care about wood and clay. It takes everything.”
“I know.”
“Then why—?”
“Because I can’t outrun it,” Yassine said, finally meeting his eyes. “Not with them. Not on foot. And the roads…” He shook his head. “If we get trapped out there…”
Hamid didn’t reply.
Because he understood.
Out there, in the chaos, there were too many variables. Too many chances for something to go wrong.
Here, at least, there was a plan.
A fragile, desperate plan—but a plan nonetheless.
Hamid exhaled slowly. “If you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
Another pause.
Then Hamid reached out and gripped his shoulder. “Then may God watch over you.”
“And you.”
Hamid turned and left, his footsteps fading quickly down the path.
Yassine closed the door.