Chapter91 – You idiot…
She bolted toward the flames. A crowd rushed in to hold her back.
"Miss, you can't go in!"
"You’ll die in there!"
"Girl, listen! Help is coming!"
"My family is inside!" she sobbed. "Let me go—please!"
But then—
A familiar pair of arms broke through the crowd and wrapped around her from behind. “Clarissa! Clarissa!”
She turned—and there he was. Atticus.
His chest heaved against hers, his arms tight around her body. He held her like he couldn’t believe she was real.
Clarissa’s heart surged.
“Atticus… you’re okay?” Her voice cracked with hope. “You made it out? Where’s your mom? Is she with you?”
But Atticus didn’t answer. His jaw clenched. His entire body went still for a fraction of a second. Then—
He shoved her gently toward a bystander. “Hold her! Don’t let her move!”
And without another word, he turned and ran straight into the fire.
“Atticus!”
Clarissa shrieked and tried to chase after him, but strong arms held her back again.
“Let me go! Let me go! Atticus, come back! Come back!”
Her screams echoed through the street, rising above the roar of the flames. She kicked and clawed, frantic, wild, as the boy disappeared into the burning house.
Inside the burning house, Clementine had collapsed onto the floor.
Flames crept around her, their roar deafening. Smoke filled her lungs with every breath, and a violent cough wracked her body—followed by a spurt of blood from her lips.
She smiled bitterly.
Even now, that woman still wouldn't let her go.
But it didn’t matter. As long as Clarissa was safe, it was all worth it.
In her shaking hand, she held a scorched photo frame. Clementine’s fingers traced her daughter’s image slowly, reverently, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the light in her eyes.
Clarissa… my little girl. My precious baby...
You must live. You must be happy.
Then—
BAM.
The door was kicked open, slamming against the wall with a thunderous crash. Firelight streaked across the figure in the doorway.
Atticus.
His body was soaked—he had doused himself before rushing in—but the flames still caught him. His clothes sizzled, the ends of his hair singed, but he moved like a man possessed.
Without a word, he crossed the room and swept Clementine into his arms.
Outside, Clarissa was on her knees in the street. Her voice had gone hoarse from screaming. Her tears mixed with the rain now starting to fall from the gray sky, soaking her hair, her clothes, her skin.
She stared toward the fire in numb horror… until she saw him.
Atticus emerged from the inferno, carrying Clementine.
His coat was nearly burned through. The hem of his pants had been eaten by fire. His skin was raw in places, and the acrid scent of burnt fabric clung to him.
And in his arms—Clementine.
Half her body was covered in brutal, blistering burns. Her head lolled against his shoulder.
“Mom! Atticus!” Clarissa cried, stumbling forward.
She rushed to them, but Atticus didn’t pause—he moved straight toward the ambulance pulling up beside them. Clarissa clung to her mother’s hand as they loaded her onto a stretcher, refusing to let go.
“Mom, mom, look at me. You’re going to be okay. You’ll be fine. Please… please be fine…”
The doors closed, and the ambulance sped away.
......
Later, in the hospital…
Atticus sat on a sterile bed, his hands and legs wrapped in thick white bandages. The burns throbbed, but he said nothing.
When he stepped out into the hallway, the first thing he saw was Clarissa.
She sat outside the operating room like a ghost.
Her entire body was soaked. Her hair clung to her face, her eyes were hollow and rimmed red. She was shivering, not from cold—but from fear.
Atticus walked over and took her hand silently. “...Sister.”
Clarissa blinked up at him, dazed, as though trying to focus through a fog.
“Atticus…” She looked at the scorched edges of his sleeves, the faint burn marks climbing up his neck. The smell of smoke still clung to him. Her hand reached out—slow, cautious, trembling—and brushed against his bandages.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered.
Atticus’s lips curled faintly. “Yeah. It hurts.” The pain didn’t show on his face.
Clarissa’s brows furrowed with worry. “Should I… ask the nurse for painkillers?”
Instead of answering, Atticus reached up and gently wiped away the tears streaking down her cheeks.
“If you stop crying…” he murmured, “then it won’t hurt anymore.”
Her tears spilled faster.
“You idiot…” she choked, her voice cracking as she leaned against his chest.
When Atticus had run into the fire, she’d thought she was going to lose him. That image of his back disappearing into the flames—it had torn her in half.
Now, with him in front of her, bandaged and burned but alive, Clarissa couldn’t stop crying.
Atticus said nothing. He just held her.
He didn’t care about Clementine’s life or death. After Belle had died, he thought he’d never care about anyone again.
But this girl—this trembling, crying girl in his arms—she changed everything.
He couldn’t stand seeing her like this.
And then—
The door to the emergency room opened.
Clarissa pulled away and rushed forward.
“Doctor! How’s my mother?!”
The doctor removed his mask slowly, then shook his head. “Fifty percent of her body is severely burned. Her condition is critical, and… her system is shutting down. I’m sorry.”
Clarissa’s vision went dark. Her knees buckled, and she would have collapsed if Atticus hadn’t caught her.
“She’s still holding on,” the doctor added. “You can go in and say goodbye.”
Clarissa nodded blankly, her body trembling as Atticus helped her down the hall. Toward the room.
Clementine lay quietly on the hospital bed.
All the machines had been unplugged. The faint beep of monitors was gone. The room was still.
Her head turned slowly at the sound of the door. Her face was pale, lips cracked, but when she saw Clarissa, a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her voice, when it came, was rough and brittle, like glass being dragged across concrete. “…Clarissa.”
“Mom…” Clarissa dropped to her knees beside the bed. Her tears came instantly, hot and unrestrained as she wrapped her arms around Clementine's frail body. “How… how did it come to this?”
“I haven’t even taken care of you properly yet,” she sobbed. “Don’t leave me. Please. I’ll call Grandpa—he’ll have a way. He always does. Just… just hold on a little longer…”
She had finally found what family felt like. She had finally tasted the warmth of this life—and now it was being torn away.
Clarissa started to stand, but Clementine’s hand caught hers.
There was no strength in her grip, only the desperate will of a mother who knew her time was slipping away.
She shook her head. “It’s too late… Don’t cry, my love. Don’t be sad. I… I haven’t been a good mother. Not even close.”
“No… no, that’s not true…” Clarissa choked, shaking her head over and over again.
Clementine’s fingers—burned and trembling—reached up to gently wipe the tears from her daughter’s cheeks. “These last three years… just hearing you call me Mom again… that was enough for me.”
Then, slowly, she slipped a ring off her finger—a delicate band of white jade, inlaid with a soft lilac diamond. One of her most treasured possessions.
With difficulty, she pushed it onto Clarissa’s finger.
“I didn't picked out a birthday gift for you…” Clementine gave a faint, rueful laugh, though her voice cracked from the effort. “This is from when I was young… I hope you won’t hate it…”