Jayh was a kid who didn't ask for much.
He didn't like talking too much in school. He just sat in the corner, quiet, staring out the window most of the time while other kids laughed and played. But at home? At home, he wouldn't shut up. He was always yapping—bothering his sister, laughing with his dad, shouting from the kitchen asking what's for dinner like a puppy who never got tired of wagging its tail.
Their house was full of noise. Happy noise.
"Mom, where are my socks again!?" he'd yell every morning while rushing to get ready.
"You left them under the table again!" his sister would shout back.
And Dad? Dad would always chuckle from the living room and say, "If it's not on your feet, it's probably under your butt."
Jayh laughed every time, even if it wasn't funny anymore. It was just how life was—warm, familiar, good.
He was ten. Just ten. Still small, still growing. Still believing that happiness like this would never end.
That morning was just like the others. His mom made eggs, his dad stole a bite, and his sister smacked his head with a spoon for taking her bread.
Jayh left for school with a smile, walking down the road with his backpack swinging behind him. His shoes weren't tied right, but he didn't care. He was happy.
"I want this life to be happy forever… with Mom and Dad," he mumbled to himself, eyes half closed under the sunlight.
But the world didn't care what he wanted.
Hours later, school ended. Jayh walked home with the same smile—tired, but excited for lunch, for stories, for noise.
But then… he smelled smoke.
At first, he ignored it. It could've been someone burning leaves. Then he turned the corner.
He stopped.
Black smoke curled into the sky. Thick, ugly, rising above rooftops like a monster. His heart began to race.
"That's… our street?" he said quietly, and his legs began to move on their own.
He ran faster.
And when he saw it—his house, the one with the white walls and the red flowers on the porch—it was burning.
Flames exploded through the windows. Wood cracked. The sky was filled with orange and gray, screaming and smoke.
Jayh froze.
He stood there, eyes wide, mouth open, still smiling—but the smile was shaking now. It didn't match the horror in his eyes.
He didn't know what to feel.
Then he ran.
But before he could get close, arms wrapped around him, dragging him back.
"Let me go!" he screamed, struggling with all his strength, but the man holding him was too strong.
"Don't go!" the man shouted, sweat pouring down his face as he kept the boy from charging into the flames. "It's too dangerous!"
Jayh kept fighting, crying, yelling.
"My mom's in there! My dad! My sister!" he screamed with a voice that cracked in the middle, like something broke inside him.
And around him, people were whispering, their faces pale and full of pity.
"That boy… his family… they didn't make it…"
Jayh heard it. Every word. But he didn't believe it.
"No… no… no…"
His hands covered his ears. His knees hit the ground. The heat of the fire burned his face even from far away, and tears began to fall—not just from sadness, but from the sting of smoke in the air.
Then came the sirens.
Ambulances arrived. Firefighters rushed in with hoses. Policemen shouted for people to move back.
But none of it mattered to Jayh.
His world was burning in front of him.
He could still hear his sister laughing. His mom calling him for lunch. His dad teasing him. All of it—right there—in the flames.
He didn't even know when he stopped crying.
Everything went quiet in his mind.
Later, he was sitting on the ground, a police officer beside him. A blanket over his shoulders. But it wasn't warm. Nothing felt warm.
"Are you the only one left, kid?" the officer asked gently, but Jayh didn't answer.
He just stared at what used to be his house.
And then, nothing.
The next few days were a blur.
After the fire, there was a funeral. Three coffins. One for Mom. One for Dad. One for his sister.
None of their relatives came.
Not a single one.
The priest said something about heaven. The officer said sorry. Jayh didn't say anything.
He just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking down at the ground.
After that, the police found him a place to live. A small apartment. Empty. Silent. Cold.
They gave him money.
"You can use this for food, okay? We'll check on you every week," the officer told him, patting his head gently. "Be strong, Jayh. You're not alone."
But it felt like a lie.
He was alone.
Every night, Jayh went to sleep hugging his sister's old teddy bear, the one he saved from the fire because he had it in his school bag that day. He held it tight, burying his face into it, breathing in what little smell of home was left.
And every night, he dreamed.
He dreamed of fire.
He dreamed of his mom screaming his name.
He dreamed of standing outside the burning house while his family cried inside.
And he woke up—crying, gasping, heart pounding.
"Why…" he whispered, voice shaking. "Why didn't I come home sooner…?"
His hands clutched the sheets.
"Why didn't I save them?"
His eyes stared into the dark.
"Why am I still alive…?"
No one answered.
The silence was too loud.