Her name was Fira. She didn’t arrive first — and she wouldn’t be the last.
But her presence lingered, even when the fire went cold.
Her name was Fira. She didn’t arrive first — and she wouldn’t be the last.
But her presence lingered, even when the fire went cold.
(Found tucked beneath the ruined floorboards of the west wing, behind a faded curtain)
The first line is always the hardest. So I’ll begin with silence.
I remember the night I arrived at the inn. It wasn’t snowing, not yet. But the wind had that scent — that bite — the kind that sneaks under your sleeves and into your chest. My boots were torn. My cloak was wet. But I was alive. That was enough.
They didn’t ask me where I came from. No one did. Maybe they already knew, or maybe they saw something in my eyes — that quiet look of someone who had nothing left to say.
A girl met me at the door. Elie, her name was. I didn’t know it then. She handed me a towel and a piece of bread. Said I looked cold. Said I should sit near the hearth. I remember how warm her voice was… but how tightly she held the tray, like she’d drop it if she softened even one more inch.
That was the first time I heard it. The word the others whispered when they talked about this place.
“Home.”
They put me in a room with two others. One of them never spoke. The other — Amehana — tried to smile but looked like she was afraid it might crack her face.
I understood that. I wore the same kind of smile.
We shared chores. Swept the halls. Carried firewood. Dried mugs. At night, I sat near the window, sketching the way the light danced on the tavern walls. It helped me stay present. Helped me feel real.
I wasn’t sure if I was staying long. But after the third day, when Amehana offered me her brush without a word, I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave easily.
Not because I had nowhere to go. But because for the first time in years, I had a reason to stay.
Some nights, we stayed up too late. Not talking. Just being near the fire. There was safety in the silence. Comfort in knowing someone else was choosing to stay awake too.
I caught the innkeeper watching us once — from behind the shelves. I don’t think he meant to be seen. But when I looked his way, he nodded. Just once. As if to say: "You're safe here. Keep going."
I never told the others. It felt like a secret meant just for me. Like he understood what I was holding onto.
There were only five of us left by then. Some had left. Others had vanished without a word. But we stayed.
I began writing this not because I thought someone would read it — but because I needed to remember.
Remember how Elie braided my hair when I was too tired to lift my arms. Remember how Amehana whispered apologies in her sleep. Remember the sound of the wooden spoon tapping the stew pot. And the way the innkeeper’s footsteps felt like a heartbeat through the floorboards.
I wanted to protect this place.
But I wasn’t strong enough.
I think the hardest part is not knowing when the end really began.
The fire was still burning. The rooms still held warmth. But something had already started to slip away. And when I walked into the kitchen and saw the lantern unlit, I knew...
This might be the last chapter I write.
Not because the story is over.
But because I might not be here to finish it.
If someone finds this, please remember:
We were here.
We tried to live.
We tried to protect something gentle.
— Fira
This memoir ended here. No further pages were written.
But the handwriting... it was steady. As if she wasn’t afraid.
Perhaps she left, like Amehana. Or perhaps she stayed until the walls fell in.
Either way, this story was preserved by one who walked where they once stood.
— GhianLeonyle
One who remembered what the fire meant.
(They say another figure once watched from the quiet corners of the world. A voice that guided stories but never asked to be seen. They called her Hiddenite.)