Two weeks after the foam fiasco, Silver Ridge had gone quiet again. The laughter had faded into memory, and life moved back to its small, steady rhythm. Jack Carter liked the calm. He cleaned the tools, checked the equipment, even fixed a leaky valve on the water tank. But underneath the quiet, something restless hummed in him. It was the same uneasy silence he’d felt just before a fire call in the old days—when the world seemed too still, too calm to trust.

Late one evening, that stillness broke.

The phone rang just after nine. Jack almost didn’t answer, thinking it was another safety inspection request. But the voice on the other end made him sit up straight.

“Jack, it’s Chief Daniels. We’ve got a situation. Fire at the old lumber mill off Route 7. It’s small for now, but the building’s old and dry as tinder. We’re short on men. Can you get here fast?”

Jack was already grabbing his jacket. “On my way.”

The night was dark and windless as he drove out of town. The truck’s headlights cut through the trees, catching the faint shimmer of smoke ahead. By the time he reached the mill, orange light flickered through broken windows, painting the ground with long shadows. The smell hit him—wood smoke mixed with the metallic edge of heat—and for a heartbeat, he was back in Portland, years ago, the night everything changed.

He parked near the volunteer truck and jumped out. Chief Daniels met him halfway, sweat streaked across his forehead. “Old storage room caught. We think a vagrant was living inside. Could be more people. Watch yourself, the beams are unstable.”

Jack nodded and pulled on gloves. “I’ll check the west side.”

He moved quickly, flashlight in one hand, crowbar in the other. The crackle of fire echoed through the hollow building. The wood groaned under its own weight. He ducked low, covering his mouth with his sleeve as smoke thickened. He found a small cot near the wall, a pile of clothes, and an old lantern lying shattered on the floor—the source of the blaze.

Then he heard it. A cough, faint but real.

“Fire department!” he shouted. “Call out!”

No answer. Just another cough, deeper inside. Jack followed the sound through the haze, his heart pounding. A man lay near a fallen beam, trying weakly to crawl away from the flames. Jack dropped to his knees, grabbed the man’s arm, and pulled. The man groaned, disoriented.

“Hang on,” Jack said. “We’re getting out.”

The fire roared louder, heat pressing in from all sides. Jack’s lungs burned, his eyes watered, but he kept dragging the man toward the door. Every breath brought flashes of another night years ago—his last big fire in Portland, when Captain Ruiz hadn’t made it out.

Not tonight, he told himself. Not again.

He stumbled into the cool air just as Daniels and another volunteer rushed over to help. Together they hauled the man clear of the smoke. He was alive, coughing hard but breathing.

Paramedics arrived a few minutes later. Jack stepped back, letting them work. His hands were shaking, though he barely noticed. He stared at the old mill as flames chewed through the roof. The building that had once built half the houses in town was now collapsing into ash.

“Nice work,” Daniels said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You saved his life.”

Jack nodded but said nothing. He was staring at the glow, lost in the rhythm of popping wood and falling embers.

When the fire was finally under control, the volunteers packed up. The night had turned cold. Jack stood alone for a while, staring at what was left of the mill.

He saw ghosts in the flames—his old crew, the nights of adrenaline and exhaustion, the faces of people he’d saved and the ones he hadn’t. He’d thought he’d left all that behind, but it had only been waiting, patient as smoke.

Maggie found him the next morning. She’d heard from Daniels and drove out to the ruins, bringing coffee in two paper cups. Jack was sitting on the tailgate of his truck, staring at the ashes.

“Thought I might find you here,” she said softly.

He nodded, taking the coffee. “Guess I couldn’t sleep.”

“You did good last night,” she said. “That man’s going to be fine.”

Jack smiled faintly. “Funny thing about fires. They never really go away. You put them out, but something keeps smoldering.”

She sat beside him, silent for a while. The morning light made the ashes shimmer like snow.

“You miss it,” she said finally.

Jack looked at her. “Yeah. I miss the noise, the purpose. The rush. But I don’t miss what it cost.”

She nodded, watching the wind stir a swirl of gray dust. “Maybe you’re still doing it—just differently now. Slower. Smaller scale. But it still matters.”

Jack thought about that, then smiled. “You might be right.”

They sat there a little longer, watching smoke drift up into the pale sky.

The lumber mill was gone, but something about the fire felt cleansing, as if it had burned through more than wood. It had burned through the last of the weight he’d carried from the city—the guilt, the second-guessing, the endless wondering.

As he drove home, Jack rolled down the window. The air smelled clean, sharp, alive. For the first time in years, the scent of smoke didn’t haunt him. It reminded him of who he was—and who he was still becoming.