The morning was supposed to be just like any other Saturday. Quiet, with the sun barely peeking over the horizon, casting long shadows on the empty streets. I sat on my porch, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, savoring the stillness.
But then I saw it.
Thick gray smoke billowed from my neighbor’s house, swirling out of the windows like a signal of distress.
I squinted, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
Silhouettes moved inside, frantic but oddly coordinated.
There was no sound of sirens, no blur of red lights.
“Where are the firefighters?” I wondered, my voice barely a whisper.
Cars zipped by, a few slowing to gawk at the scene.
People began to gather, curiosity pulling them into the unfolding drama.
But something about it felt off, like a staged production where everyone knew their role.
