4.3.25 - The Book Keepers Dilemma pt 10

Parable 10: The Fire That Wasn’t Fought

The fire happened in a version of the house no one would name.

There were no burn marks. No repairs. No paperwork.

And yet, when Father walked into the kitchen that morning, the toaster was gone. The outlet it had plugged into was scorched at the edge, a faint black bloom.

He stood there, staring at it, until Mother came in behind him.

“Oh,” she said, casually. “They haven’t fixed that yet?”

“Fixed what?”

“The burn. From the fire. Last year. You remember.”

“I don’t.”

She gave him a long, even look. Then opened the fridge.

That night, he dreamt of sirens. Not blaring—just approaching. Like wolves in fog.

The baby cried from another room, but when he opened the door, smoke wafted out. He rushed in, pulled the child from the crib, only to find her face had been replaced with a blinking cursor.

When he woke up, the room was quiet. The air smelled faintly of ozone.

On the window, drawn in condensation:

“It wasn’t your fault this time.”

He tried to talk to Mother again.

They sat on the couch while the twins watched cartoons, the baby curled up with a bottle.

“There wasn’t a fire,” he said. “Not here. Not in this house.”

She didn’t look at him. “Then why are you so afraid of the hallway light flickering?”

“Because I think the house is remembering something that never happened.”

Finally, she looked at him.

“Then why do I have the scar on my hand?”

She held it up.

And there it was.

A long, thin line across her palm. Faded, but undeniable.

“I fell,” she said. “Trying to grab the baby bag. I cut my hand on the stove handle.”

“No,” he said. “That didn’t happen.”

She stood.

Walked to the hallway.

When she turned the corner, her voice came faintly from the bathroom:

“Then how come you still scream when you smell burnt lemon?”

He searched the house.

Old files. Photos. He opened drawers, checked email logs, scrolled messages.

And then he found it.

Tucked behind a stack of coloring books: a folder marked “Displacement / Incident 12-B.”

Inside was a printed report:

“Subject resisted withdrawal from previous version post-event. Minor burn to partner. Baby recovered. Reset authorized by Interpreter Class 2. Reentry completed via dream stitching.”

A photo was clipped to the corner.

His family, standing outside their home. Fire trucks in the background. Everyone wrapped in blankets. He looked pale, hollow-eyed.

The baby clutched a plush rabbit.

Except—she never had a rabbit.

Not in this version.

He placed the file in the trash. Lit a match. Burned it in the sink.

And still, the smell of it clung to him.

That evening, Mother told the kids the bedtime story.

The one about the tree that grows backward.

But now, she told it differently.

In her version, the father had two shadows—and one of them stayed behind in the fire.

The children listened, wide-eyed.

When the story ended, one of the twins asked, “Which shadow are we with now?”

Mother kissed their heads.

“That depends,” she said. “On who you remember tomorrow.”

She looked at Father then.

But she didn’t say anything else.

She didn’t need to.