Ashes of Us

The smell of burnt wood lingered in the air long after the last flame had died. It wasn't from a fire—not the kind that required hoses and sirens—but the subtle kind, the one that eats away at the soul quietly, until all that's left is smoke and silence.

Clara stood in front of the small lake cabin, her boots crunching the frost-covered leaves. She hadn't been here in three years. Not since the last fight. Not since he left.

The place looked smaller now. Less magical. The swing they had hung together still swayed in the late autumn wind, as though someone had just jumped off. She stepped up onto the porch, every creak of the old wood groaning like a memory calling her back. She had once danced here barefoot, drunk on wine and love, laughing under the stars. That version of her felt like someone else’s ghost.

Inside, it was just as they’d left it. Blankets folded neatly, mugs still stacked next to the chipped sink, a photo frame face-down on the mantle. She picked it up and blew away the dust. The picture was of the two of them, soaked in rain, smiling like they had never known pain. He was holding her hand like it was the only thing that mattered.

“I thought forever meant something,” she whispered to no one.

She didn't cry anymore. There had been too many tears. Now, all that was left was an ache—a dull, consistent hum in the background of everything she did. He had left with a suitcase and no words. She had stayed behind with memories and too many questions.

The truth was, they hadn’t fallen apart in one moment. There was no big betrayal. No scandal. Just a slow undoing. Like pulling at a loose thread until the whole fabric collapsed. They had grown quiet. Then distant. Then strangers.

She wandered into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress still carried the dent of where he used to lie. She closed her eyes.

He had laughed differently in the early days. Freer. They used to dream about renovating the place—adding a fireplace, maybe a little reading nook. But dreams require more than love. They require work. And both of them had started clocking out before they noticed the structure collapsing.

She had kept a journal then. She reached into the drawer and found it—leather-bound, slightly warped from humidity. Flipping through the pages, she found entries from the beginning:

"June 12: We painted the ceiling today. I got more paint on him than the walls, but he didn't mind. He said, 'If this is what forever feels like, I’m in.' I believed him."

Another page.

"September 5: He’s been quiet lately. Said work is stressful. I miss the way he used to talk to me without me having to ask."

And another.

"November 2: We fought again. About the stupid dishes. But it wasn't really about that. I think we both know."

She closed the book, her hand trembling.

Outside, the wind carried the scent of pine and distance. Clara stood up and opened the window. Cold air rushed in. She breathed it in like a cleansing ritual.

She hadn't come here to mourn. Not anymore. She had come for closure.

She walked to the fireplace and lit a single match. In the hearth, she placed a few twigs, the old photo, and the journal.

Flames curled upward, gentle at first, then fierce. The past turned to smoke, rising in soft spirals toward the open chimney. It wasn’t revenge. It wasn’t regret. It was release.

As the fire consumed the last of the pages, she whispered, “Goodbye.”

Not to him. But to the version of herself who had waited too long for someone who had already let go.

Clara left the cabin at dawn. The frost had melted under a weak sun. The swing was still moving, though the wind had stopped.

She didn’t look back.

There was no one to wave to, no arms waiting at the door. Just echoes and ash.

But in her chest, something lighter stirred. A space once occupied by longing now opened for something else—maybe peace. Maybe hope. She didn’t know yet. But it was hers.

The ashes of them were scattered now, caught in the corners of her memory. But they no longer held her. They no longer burned.

And in the quiet that followed, Clara found something close to beginning again.