Mike Byers had always believed that thunderstorms were loud reminders that the universe was bigger than any single person. At eighteen, he had stood at his bedroom window countless times, palms pressed to the cool glass, watching forks of lightning tear open the sky like glowing scars. But never—not once—had he imagined that lightning would be the thing that decided the final night of his life.
The rain started early that evening, a light tapping on the Byers' rooftop like impatient fingers. Mike sat cross-legged on his bed, textbooks open but forgotten. He was supposed to be preparing for his engineering entrance exams, something his dad kept reminding him about every morning and every evening, but today his mind refused to obey.
His parents had left an hour earlier for their anniversary dinner, dressed nicer than Mike had seen them in years, teasing each other like teenagers. "Just keep an eye on the twins," his mother had said, smoothing his hair like she always did. "Don't let them terrorize the house."
"Hey, I'm eighteen," Mike had replied, grinning. "I'm practically a responsible adult."
"You're practically a pain in the neck," his father had added, laughing as they stepped out into the soft drizzle.
"Just don't burn down the house," his mom had shouted jokingly while closing the door.
Irony, Mike thought now, staring at the darkening sky, is a cruel storyteller.
Downstairs, eight-year-old Lily and Liam were arguing over which movie to watch. Their voices drifted through the house—his sister's dramatic complaints, his brother's stubborn logic.
Mike shook himself from his haze. "Alright, gremlins," he called, standing and stretching. "Let's settle this like civilized beings."
Two small faces peeked up from behind the couch as he came down the stairs, both of them armed with a stack of DVDs like they were preparing for war.
"I pick Frozen!" Lily declared, lifting the case over her head like a trophy.
"No!" Liam shot back. "We watched that last week! We should watch Avengers! It has cooler explosions!"
"I don't care about explosions!"
"I DO!"
Mike raised both hands, mediator by force rather than choice. "Okay, okay, how about—"
Another crack of thunder rolled across the sky, long and deep, making the windows rattle. The lights flickered once, then steadied.
"Whoa," Liam breathed.
"It's loud," Lily whispered, clutching her stuffed bunny closer.
Mike crouched beside them. "It's just the clouds yelling at each other," he joked gently. "Happens all the time."
Lily nodded, but her small fingers held his sleeve tightly.
"Okay," Mike said, "one movie. We'll flip a coin. Heads for Avengers, tails for Frozen."
"And if it lands standing?" Liam asked.
"Then both of you clean the entire house."
"Nooooo!" Lily squealed.
Mike laughed and tossed the coin. It landed tails. Lily cheered; Liam groaned dramatically. They settled on the couch, Lily snuggled under a blanket and Liam already mouthing objections. Mike dimmed the lights and joined them with a bowl of popcorn that disappeared quicker than he expected.
It should have been an ordinary night.
It should have ended with sleepy kids, warm blankets, and his parents returning home smiling.
It didn't.
---
The storm grew worse.
By the time the movie reached its halfway point, the rain wasn't tapping anymore—it was hammering. The thunder shook the entire neighborhood. Lightning lit up the living room like a camera flash every few seconds.
BOOM.
The lights flickered.
BOOM.
They steadied again.
Mike frowned. "Okay, that one was close."
Liam sat up. "What if the power goes out?"
"Then we tell scary stories," Mike replied.
"Noooo!" Lily wailed instantly.
"Okay, not scary. Very un-scary stories. With rainbows and ice cream. Happy?"
She nodded, though her eyes still darted between the window and her stuffed bunny.
Mike checked the windows. The wind pushed hard, making branches whip across the house. The gutters overflowed. Everything outside looked like a blurry, shaking watercolor painting.
He stepped back, forcing calm. "It's fine," he told himself quietly.
Then the lightning struck.
Not the usual flash. This one was deafening, a blinding white lance that stabbed the earth somewhere close—far too close.
The entire house shook. The TV sparked. The lights died.
Lily screamed.
The darkness swallowed everything.
"It's okay!" Mike shouted, heart pounding. "I'm right here—don't move!"
He reached for them, found their hands trembling in the dark.
"Let's get the emergency lantern," he said, pulling them up. He moved cautiously, guiding them through the pitch-black living room toward the kitchen drawer.
Then he smelled it.
Smoke.
A faint but unmistakable burn in the air—like wires overheating or wood catching flame.
"Mike?" Liam whispered. "Do you smell that?"
He swallowed. "Stay behind me."
He found the lantern, clicked it on. A soft yellow glow filled the kitchen.
The smoke smell thickened.
And then he heard the alarm.
A shrill, piercing beeping from upstairs—the smoke detector—followed by a small burst of crackling that made the hair on his arms stand.
"Stay here," he ordered the twins, voice sharper than usual. "Don't move. If I say run, you run straight to the front door. Got it?"
Their terrified nods nearly broke him.
He raced up the stairs, lantern bouncing in his grip, heart pounding hard enough to bruise his ribs. At the top, he saw it immediately—the hallway was filling with gray smoke. The door to his parents' bedroom glowed faintly orange around the edges.
Lightning must have struck the roof.
The fire spread fast—too fast.
He grabbed his shirt collar and pressed it over his nose, coughing as the smoke thickened. Heat rolled through the hallway like a physical force.
He had to act.
He had to get the twins out before the fire cut off the stairs.
He ran back down two steps at a time.
"Come on!" he yelled. "We're leaving—now!"
Lily was crying, coughing tiny puffs as the smoke seeped downstairs. Liam's face had gone pale.
"I don't like this," Liam whispered.
Mike grabbed their hands. "I know. But I've got you. We're getting out."
He led them toward the front door, but as he reached for the handle, a new sound cut through the chaos—the sudden roar of flames in the living room wall. A burst of sparks shot across the hardwood floor.
The fire had reached downstairs too.
No. Too fast. Too fast.
The front door area was blocked by heat and bright, angry flames.
Mike's mind raced.
Back door.
He dragged the twins toward the kitchen as a beam overhead groaned loudly, dust falling from the ceiling.
But the fire seemed to chase them, curling across the walls, eating oxygen greedily. The kitchen door's frame was burning. The smoke was so thick Mike could barely see.
Lily coughed violently.
"Mike… I can't breathe…"
He dropped to one knee. "Down low! Crawl. Keep your faces near the floor!"
He guided them with shaking hands, pushing them toward the sliding glass back door. But when he reached it, the worst possible realization struck him like a punch to the gut.
The storm had blown a tree branch into the backyard earlier. Now it was pressed against the door, blocking it from sliding open.
"No, no, no—come on!" he muttered, shoving against the glass, but it didn't budge.
The heat surged behind them.
The house groaned—a terrifying sound like bones cracking.
He looked down at the twins. Lily's sobs had turned weak. Liam was coughing violently.
This was bad.
"Mike…" Liam gasped. "Are we gonna die?"
"No," Mike said instantly, fiercely, even though fear clawed at his throat. "Not tonight. I'll get you out, I swear."
He lifted a kitchen stool and smashed it with all his strength. The glass cracked but didn't shatter.
He hit it again.
Cracks spread like spiderwebs.
But the fire behind him roared louder. A wooden beam crashed to the floor not far from the twins, sending up sparks.
He couldn't keep smashing.
They were running out of time.
He turned, scooped up both of them—one under each arm. "Close your eyes. Bury your faces in me."
They obeyed instantly.
Mike took a step back, eyes stinging, lungs burning.
And then, with every ounce of strength he had left, he kicked the weak point in the glass.
The third hit cracked it nearly through. The fourth made a hole. He drove his foot through one last time, shattering an opening wide enough for the twins.
Fresh, wet air rushed in.
"Go!" he shouted, pushing them through the jagged gap. "Run to the fence! Don't look back!"
They stumbled into the rain, coughing and crying but alive.
Mike felt a wave of relief so strong it nearly buckled his knees.
That was when the ceiling above him cracked.
He turned just as the living room roof—already engulfed—gave way with a roar. Flames exploded across the kitchen, driving him backward.
A burning beam crashed down between him and the broken glass.
The exit sealed.
The doorway behind him collapsed, cutting off the rest of the house.
Heat stabbed at his skin, blistering instantly. Smoke clawed his lungs.
He could barely breathe.
But through the shattered door, he could see them—Lily hugging Liam, both screaming his name through the rain, their faces pale with terror.
He tried to move toward them.
A wave of heat knocked him down.
For the first time that night, the reality hit him.
He wasn't getting out.
But they were safe.
He forced himself onto one elbow, coughing violently. His vision blurred, colors running together like watercolors in a storm.
Outside, the twins were screaming. He wanted to shout back, to tell them it was okay, to tell them he loved them, but the smoke was too thick, the heat too sharp.
Instead, he looked through the broken glass at them—his last lifeline to the world he was leaving.
A strange calm settled over him.
He had saved them.
He had done something right.
His parents would come home to two living children because of him.
That was enough.
His last thought, before the smoke finally closed the world around him, was a simple one:
Please… let them grow up safe.
And then everything faded into darkness.
---