The flashback came unbidden, unrolling in his mind like a strip of film half-burned at the edges.
He had been at his easel that day, in the corner of their small living room, sketching the river at sunset.
His wife had been cooking, her hair tucked behind her ears as she hummed.
Their boy had been sitting by the window with a wooden boat in his hands, asking if they could go to the river in the morning.
The sirens had cut through that ordinary evening with a sound that froze his blood.
He remembered dropping the brush, the wet streak of paint falling across the canvas.
He remembered his wife's eyes turning toward him, wide and afraid.
He remembered his son's small hands tightening on the toy boat.
And then the windows had shattered inward with a roar of wind and fire.
The next memory was of dust and coughing, the world around him blurred and broken.
The wall had collapsed, the ceiling had caved in, and the air had burned his lungs.
He had crawled through the debris with bleeding hands, screaming their names.
He never found them.
The city had burned until the night sky was the color of copper.
By the time the fires died, he was one of the few left to dig the graves.