They always fall for the smile.
The apron. The soft voice. The sweets in my pocket. That's all it takes. You hand a child a cookie, and suddenly you're the safe one. The warm one. The man with laugh lines instead of blood on his hands.
She fell for it, too.
Even in the end, when the flames kissed her dress and the mob roared like animals, she looked at me like I could save her.
That was the best part.
I watched her mouth form my name. Or maybe it was just a scream. Either way—it didn't matter. There was no saving. No second chances. Just smoke, and bone, and silence.
The world is better off without her.
They'll call it justice. They'll call it divine. Some will whisper "tragedy." I'll let them. Let them cry and ache and wring their hands.
It's done.
She was a threat wrapped in ribbons. A spark pretending to be a child. And if I had let her grow—if I had let her remember—it would've all come undone. Again.
So I lit the match.
And I smiled while they watched her burn.
And I'd do it again.
The others were just collateral. The mother. The father. The brother who gave up his cookie with that dumb little grin—what was I supposed to do? Let them live and stir her memory? Let them water the roots of something unnatural?
No. I ripped it all out.
Scorched the garden.
Salted the earth.
And still… I feel it. Not guilt. Never that.
But a tremble in the air.
The kind of stillness that comes before something returns.
Just wind, I tell myself. Just ash.
But still—I keep my matches close.
Just in case.