After the Fire

Liora arrived at the edge of the valley three days after the fire had passed through.

The air still smelled faintly of ash, though the smoke itself had long since lifted. Blackened trunks stood where trees had been, some fallen, some upright, all stripped of their former confidence. The ground was a confusion of grey dust, cracked earth, and the occasional stubborn stone that had refused to burn.

She had expected stillness.

Instead, the place was busy.

Small movements caught her eye: ants crossing the warm soil in erratic lines; a lizard pausing, then darting, then pausing again on a rock newly exposed to the sun. Somewhere lower down, she heard the sound of wings — not a bird’s call, but the quick, dry beat of flight.

Nothing here seemed to be recovering.

Things were simply happening.

Liora walked slowly, careful where she placed her feet. Each step sent a faint cloud of ash into the air, which drifted briefly and then settled elsewhere. She noticed how quickly paths began to suggest themselves — not marked, but easier. The ground yielded more in some places than others. Her body adjusted without instruction.

At the centre of the valley, a creek bed lay exposed. The water was low, but it moved decisively, slipping around stones that had not been visible before. Where it pooled, green had already begun to assert itself — not grass, not yet, but something that had no interest in waiting.

Liora crouched and watched.

There was no sense in which the valley was trying to return to what it had been. The old shapes no longer mattered. What mattered was what could happen now: where shade fell, where moisture lingered, where movement was possible.

She realised that if she returned in a month, the valley would not be further along a plan. It would be different again — not better, not worse — just differently constrained.

As she stood to leave, a gust of wind moved through the burned trunks. Ash lifted, swirled, and settled in a new pattern. Already, the ground no longer looked the same.

Liora smiled, not because the valley would heal, but because it did not need to know how.

It was already underway.