Her apartment was a sanctuary of climate control. She had a high-powered air purifier to suck up any errant sparks. Her pillows were made of a fire-retardant fabric she’d ordered online from a company that usually supplied race car drivers. She slept on her back, arms at her sides, like a vampire in a very warm coffin.
Carrie Emberlyn, the woman who had become a museum exhibit of one, finally had a visitor who wasn't there to stare at the glass case. He was there to open it. And for the first time, she didn't try to douse the flame. She let it flicker. Just a little. Just for him. And it felt, at last, less like a curse and more like a name. carrie emberlyn
The mother, flustered, hushed the child and pushed the cart away. But Carrie just smiled. It wasn't an insult. It was a fact. Her apartment was a sanctuary of climate control
Leo stood there, perfectly still. His face wasn't scared. It was… reverent. He looked at the faint, fading glow in her hair, then at her wide, terrified eyes. She slept on her back, arms at her
The truth, which she had never told a soul, was that her hair changed with her mood. Not metaphorically. Actually.