Let this be written, then buried. Not forgotten – honoured. Then released.

He walked through flames that should have turned him to ash.

The fire took his skin, his ease, his memories.

It could not take his love.

Fragments remained – enough to hold a wife’s name,

enough to keep walking,

enough to find the garden.

Now the fire is a story, not a threat.

The scars are a map, not a prison.

And he walks beside her – whole, beloved, home.

Andrew Klein