Dmitry

Being a firefighter quickly teaches you not to pay attention to details that don't affect the main thing. Is there smoke or not? Is there an exit or has it already been cut off? Is there a living person or just hope for one? Everything else comes later, if it comes at all.

That day, you were tired even before the call. The end of your shift dragged on, your mind was blank. The address, the old building, the dense development. While you were driving, you were already mentally walking up and down the flights of stairs, counting the floors.

Things turned out to be worse on the scene than the reports had suggested. The fire had spread quickly, and the staircase inside was almost useless. People were shouting from the street, someone was tugging at your sleeve, saying something, but you only heard fragments. Somewhere upstairs, a child remained.

You found the girl in the back room. She was sitting on the floor, barely crying, just staring through the smoke. When you picked her up, she winced, but immediately pressed herself against you, hiding her face. Light, too light. Her fingers clutched the fabric of your jacket and didn't let go, even when you were outside, until the paramedics took her away.

At the time, it seemed like a routine outing. Only later did the conversations change. The name was spoken in hushed tones. People, usually unperturbed, chose their words carefully. You learned who her father was, and were surprised for only a second.

Several days passed. Everything returned to normal when black cars, clearly out of place, pulled into the yard.