The fire started in the roses.
Not ordinary flames memory-fire, green and hungry, devouring the garden in waves that left no ash, only echoes:
—A younger Jacob planting teeth in the soil.
—Eleanor stitching feathers into her own skin.
—Thomas weeping as he carved the first mask.
The house convulsed, its walls peeling back to reveal the original structure beneath—not a manor, but an orphanage, its windows boarded up with children's drawings. The fire raced up its sides, burning away centuries of lies.
Emily walked into the inferno.
Eleanor tried to grab her, but the crow blocked her path. "Let the angel go," it said. "She's leading the others home."
Through the flames, Eleanor saw them—
Children.
Dozens of them, their hands linked, their mouths finally unstitched. They followed Emily into the heart of the fire, their voices rising in a song that sounded like forgiveness.
Jacob's cage exploded.
Not into pieces into birds, a thousand crows with feathers of bone and eyes of molten gold. They circled the burning house once, twice, then scattered into the dawn.
Only three things remained:
A single rose, its petals the color of fresh blood.
Thomas's mask, now blank and smooth.
The crow, perched on Eleanor's shoulder.
"Now we remember," it said.
And for the first time in centuries—
—The sun rose.