Fiction: Firesuite

My house burned down on the day that the World Trade Center was destroyed. It started as a small fire in the kitchen when some oil caught alight, but there weren’t enough firefighters to come out until it was too late and the fire couldn’t be contained anymore. Considering what happened that day it’s hard to feel angry at the lack of response, but I lost everything I owned that day, with the slow motion erasure of my past beginning as the embers cooled. I have collected pictures of those two towers since that day, kept safe alongside my other photos in a fire resistant case kept under my bed.

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