The sky burned. Not just in streaks of red and orange, but in thick, choking waves of black. Smoke poured from the lake, twisting into the night.
Danny coughed, his throat raw. The old casino was gone—fire had swallowed it whole. The band’s gear, the stage, the memories—all turned to ash in a single, cruel breath.
It had happened so fast. One second, they were laughing, sharing cigarettes by the water. The next, flames licked the sky, greedy and wild. Someone had screamed. Someone had run. But the fire had already decided.
The reflection danced on the surface of the lake, mocking them. The guitars, the amps, the dream—gone.
Danny tightened his fists. „We had one shot, man.“
Pete wiped soot from his face. „We still got our hands. Still got our voices.“
The others stood in silence, eyes hollow, staring at the embers floating like dead stars.
From somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Too late.
Danny turned back to the water, watching the smoke curl. It wasn’t just the fire that burned. It was everything. The dream they’d built, the songs they’d played, the future they’d imagined.
But then he inhaled. Beneath the charred wood, beneath the ruin, the lake still moved. Cool, steady. Unbroken.
His voice was hoarse, but steady. “We write a new one tomorrow.”
And for the first time that night, Pete smiled.
