PROSE – FOWC & RDP

The alley wasn’t picturesque, but it was honest. Cracked brick walls caught the last tired light of the day, holding it like a secret. She leaned against them, letting the roughness bite through the fabric of her shirt — a small reminder she was still here, still standing.

People always skipped places like this. Skipped the alleys, skipped the worn faces that carried too many losses. She used to believe that if she fought hard enough, worked long enough, she could save something — a home, a love, herself. She thought effort could outmatch entropy.

But slowly, we turn the page and walk away from everything. We worked so hard to save. Must we start all over and find another shoulder to lean on?

The question pressed into her like ash on skin. Maybe survival wasn’t about saving what was burning. Maybe it was about knowing when to let it burn. About sifting through the ashes for the pieces that could still hold weight.

The sun folded into the horizon, leaving behind the thick hum of a city settling into itself. She didn’t move quickly. She didn’t look back. Some fires you didn’t put out. Some things you simply let burn and walked away from — lighter, fiercer, more your own.

She stepped out of the alley and into the dusk, steady and unafraid, carrying only what survived the fire.

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