Wednesday, March 25th.
The second day of suspension began with rain.
Not a storm—just steady, gray drizzle that tapped against the windows like impatient fingers. The house smelled of damp concrete from the open garage door and the faint coffee Elena had brewed at 6:30 a.m. before deciding she couldn't go back to sleep. She sat at the kitchen table in the same hoodie from yesterday, scrolling through her phone for the third time: Kayla's flight confirmation [arriving Friday 8:17 p.m.], Dr. Patel's follow-up email ["Please encourage Troy to use the notebook between sessions"], a text from her charge nurse asking if she needed another day off.
She typed back: [One more day. Family stuff. Thanks.]
Then she set the phone face-down and stared at the ceiling.
Upstairs, Troy hadn't moved since 10 p.m. the night before.
He woke at 8:42 a.m. to the sound of rain on the roof and the low murmur of the TV downstairs—some morning news show Elena had turned on for background noise. He lay still for a long time, eyes on the ceiling stars. They looked duller in daylight, almost embarrassed to glow. His palms still itched from yesterday's session with Dr. Patel, from the way she'd said "other ways to get that feeling" like it was simple.
He rolled over, opened the notebook she'd given him.
The page from last night stared back: two small flames, side by side, drawn with the black pen he'd found in his desk drawer. No color. Just outlines. Smoke curling upward in thin, careful lines. He traced one with his finger, feeling the slight indent in the paper.
No match.
No steel wool.
No battery.
Just the drawing.
He closed the notebook. Slid it under his pillow.
Downstairs, Elena heard his footsteps on the stairs—slow, deliberate. She turned the TV volume down.
"Morning" she said when he appeared in the doorway.
"Morning."
He wore the same hoodie (singed cuff now hidden under a long sleeve shirt she'd laid out last night), sweatpants, mismatched socks. Hair messy from sleep. Eyes shadowed but clearer than yesterday.
"Hungry?"
"A little."
She stood. "Oatmeal? Or toast with peanut butter?"
"Oatmeal."
She moved to the stove, filled a pot with water, measured oats. The routine felt fragile, like something that could shatter if she moved too fast. Troy pulled out a chair, sat, watched her.
After the oatmeal was on the table—plain for him, with cinnamon and a drizzle of honey for her—they ate in quiet. Rain pattered. The spoon clinked against the bowl.
Halfway through, Troy spoke.
"I drew something."
Elena looked up. "In the notebook?"
"Yeah."
She waited.
He didn't elaborate. Just kept eating.
After breakfast, Elena suggested the backyard again—rain or no rain. "We can sit under the overhang. Watch the water."
Troy shrugged. "Okay."
They dragged two plastic chairs under the small roof extension off the garage. The air was cool, wet-earth scented. Water dripped from the gutters in steady plinks. The scorched shed stood twenty feet away, its black marks darker in the gray light.
Elena pulled her knees up. "You can talk about it if you want. The drawing. Or anything."
Troy stared at the rain. "It was just flames. Small ones."
"Like the real ones?"
"Smaller. No smoke smell."
She nodded slowly. "Dr. Patel said drawing might help. Does it?"
"A little." He paused. "Not the same quiet. But… quieter than nothing."
Elena exhaled through her nose. "That's something."
They sat for almost an hour. Rain eased to mist. Birds started calling again. A neighbor's car started, drove away. Normal sounds.
Around noon, Elena's phone buzzed. Kayla.
[Hey Mom. Flight's on time. Bringing takeout from that Thai place Troy likes. And I found something in my dorm closet—old sparklers from when we were kids. Thought we could do them in the driveway Saturday night. Metaphorical only. No real fires. Promise?]
Elena showed the screen to Troy.
His eyes widened a fraction.
"Tell her yes" he said.
Elena typed back. [He says yes. Looking forward to it.]
Troy leaned back in the chair. "She remembers the sparklers."
"She remembers everything about you."
He didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth lifted—just a twitch.
Lunch was sandwiches—ham and cheese for him, turkey for her. They ate at the table again. Elena tried small talk: weather, what he wanted for dinner, if he'd seen the new cartoon episode. Troy answered in short sentences, but he answered.
After lunch, Elena suggested homework—nothing formal, just reading or math worksheets she'd printed from the school portal. Troy agreed without argument. They set up at the dining table: him with a fourth-grade math packet (fractions again), her with a novel she hadn't touched in months.
He worked slowly. Erased a lot. Occasionally stared out the window at the wet yard.
At 3:15 p.m., he pushed the packet away.
"Done?"
"Mostly."
She closed her book. "Want to show me the notebook?"
He hesitated. Then went upstairs, came back with it.
Opened to the page.
Two small flames. Precise. Almost delicate.
Elena studied them. "They're… beautiful."
He shrugged.
"No color," she noted.
"Didn't have any crayons downstairs."
She stood. "Come on."
They went to the hall closet. She pulled down a plastic bin labeled [Art Supplies – Troy & Kayla.]
Inside: old crayons, markers, colored pencils, half-used glue sticks, construction paper from years ago.
Troy's eyes lit up when he saw the orange and yellow stubs.
They took the bin to the table.
He selected orange, red, a deep yellow. Began shading the flames—slow strokes, layering color until they glowed on the page. Added gray smoke, faint blue at the base for heat.
Elena watched without speaking.
When he finished, the two flames looked alive—warm, contained, safe.
He stared at them a long time.
"Better?" she asked.
"Yeah."
She reached over, squeezed his shoulder. "Good."
The afternoon stretched.
They watched a movie—some animated thing about a boy and his dragon. Troy sat closer than usual. Halfway through, he leaned his head on her arm. She didn't move.
When the credits rolled, it was 6:00 p.m.
Dinner prep: pasta with sauce from a jar, garlic bread from the freezer. Simple. Comforting.
They ate while talking about nothing important—favorite superheroes, what Kayla might bring, if the rain would stop by Friday.
After dishes, Elena suggested a walk—rain had stopped, sky clearing to pale pink at the edges.
They walked the block. Streetlights flickered on. Neighbors waved from porches. Troy kept pace beside her, hands in pockets.
Halfway around, he said, "I didn't feel the storm today."
Elena's heart skipped.
"Not even a little?"
"Not really. It was there, but… far away."
She stopped under a streetlamp. Looked down at him.
"That's progress, Troy."
He nodded.
Back home, bath. Pajamas. Teeth brushed.
Elena tucked him in at 8:45 p.m.—earlier than school nights, but suspension had no rules.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
"Proud of you today" she said.
"For what?"
"For trying. For drawing instead of… other things."
He looked at the notebook on his nightstand.
"Tomorrow too?"
"Tomorrow too."
She kissed his forehead.
Left the door cracked.
Downstairs, she poured a glass of wine—first in weeks. Sat on the couch. Stared at the ceiling.
No smoke smell tonight.
No sirens in her head.
Just quiet.
Real quiet.
She closed her eyes.
Upstairs, Troy lay awake longer.
Opened the notebook again.
Drew a third flame—smaller, beside the others.
Colored it carefully.
Then closed it.
Turned off the lamp.
The ceiling stars glowed faintly.
He listened to the house settle.
No itch in his palms.
No storm.
Just breathing.
Slow.
Even.
For the first time in months, sleep came without smoke dreams.
Thursday, March 26th.
The third day of suspension dawned clear.
Sunlight slanted through the blinds, painting stripes across Troy's bed. He woke at 7:50 a.m.—no alarm, just light. Stretched. Felt… light.
Downstairs, Elena was already up. Pancakes today—real ones, with blueberries she'd thawed overnight.
Troy came down in fresh clothes. Hair combed (mostly).
"Morning" he said.
"Morning, baby."
They ate at the table. Talked about Kayla's arrival tomorrow. What Thai food he wanted. If they should clean her old room.
After breakfast, Elena suggested the backyard again—no rain, just cool air.
They weeded more. Planted a few marigold seeds from a packet Elena found in the garage. Troy dug small holes with his fingers, dropped the seeds, patted dirt over them.
"Think they'll grow?" he asked.
"If we water them. And wait."
He nodded.
Mid-morning, Dr. Patel called—quick check-in.
Elena put her on speaker.
"How's the notebook going?" Dr. Patel asked.
Troy answered himself. "Drew flames. Colored them."
"Good. Very good. Are they helping?"
"A little."
"Keep going. Any other feelings come up when you draw?"
Troy thought. "Sometimes I draw Kayla too. In the smoke."
Silence on the line.
"That's beautiful," Dr. Patel said softly. "Smoke carries memories. It's okay to let her be there."
Troy swallowed. "Okay."
They talked ten more minutes. Homework: draw one thing every day that makes him feel safe. No pressure on subject.
Elena hung up.
Troy went upstairs with the notebook.
Drew the backyard chairs under the overhang. Raindrops on the roof. Mom's hand on the trowel. Small, careful lines.
Added color—green grass, gray sky, yellow hoodie.
No flames this time.
When he showed Elena at lunch, she teared up.
"Beautiful" she whispered.
Afternoon: board games. Old Monopoly from the closet. Troy won—got Boardwalk and Park Place early. Elena laughed when he bankrupted her.
"You're ruthless" she said.
He smiled—small, real.
Dinner: pizza delivery. They ate in front of the TV—another movie, this one about kids finding treasure.
Troy fell asleep on the couch halfway through.
Elena covered him with a blanket. Watched him breathe.
No singed smell on his clothes.
No guilt in her chest.
She carried him upstairs—ten years old, still small enough—and tucked him in.
He stirred. "Kayla tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow night."
"Good."
She kissed his forehead.
Slept in her own bed for the first time in days without checking the doors twice.
Friday, March 27th.
Suspension day four.
But today felt different.
Kayla arriving.
Elena cleaned the house top to bottom—vacuumed, dusted Kayla's room, changed the sheets, put fresh towels in the bathroom. Troy helped: carried laundry baskets, wiped counters, arranged his drawings on the fridge with magnets.
The notebook pages now had six entries:
*Two flames
*Three colored flames
*Backyard chairs
*Mom weeding
*Ceiling stars
*A single sparklers stick
No real fire.
Elena noticed.
At 3:00 p.m., she drove Troy to the park near the house—neutral ground, fresh air.
They walked the paths. Swung on swings. Fed ducks at the pond.
Troy talked more than he had in weeks—about school friends (not many), about the dragon movie, about what Kayla might look like now.
"She's taller" Elena said. "But same smile."
Troy nodded.
Back home at 5:30 p.m.
Shower. Fresh clothes.
Elena cooked nothing—Thai takeout planned.
At 7:45 p.m., headlights swept the driveway.
A rental car.
Door opened.
Kayla stepped out—jeans, hoodie, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair longer than last time, pulled into a messy bun.
Troy froze in the doorway.
She saw him.
Grinned.
"Little Pyro!"
He ran.
She dropped the backpack, caught him in a hug that lifted him off the ground.
He buried his face in her shoulder.
Smelled lavender body spray. Airport coffee. Home.
She held him tight.
"Hey" she whispered. "Missed you."
"Missed you more."
Elena stood behind them, tears streaming.
Kayla set Troy down. Hugged Elena next.
Then pulled bags from the car: Thai food containers, a wrapped gift box, a paper bag of sparklers.
Inside, they ate on the living room floor—pad thai, spring rolls, mango sticky rice.
Laughed.
Talked.
Kayla asked about the fires—gently.
Troy told her.
She listened.
No judgment.
Just: "I get it. The quiet part. I used to blast music when I felt empty. Same thing, different volume."
Troy nodded.
After food, Kayla handed him the gift.
"Early birthday. Open it."
He tore the paper.
Inside: a small metal tin—old, dented.
He opened it.
Matches. But not kitchen matches.
Birthday candle matches—long, colorful stems, tiny flames printed on the heads.
"Safe ones," Kayla said. "For cakes only. And only with Mom or me there."
Troy stared.
Elena tensed.
But Troy closed the tin.
"Thank you."
He didn't ask to light one.
Instead he hugged her again.
Later, they sat on the porch steps—three of them now.
Looked at stars.
Talked about college. About Mom's shifts. About Dad's truck routes.
Troy leaned against Kayla.
She ruffled his hair.
"You're gonna be okay," she said.
He believed her.
Bedtime came late—10:30 p.m.
Kayla tucked him in—old ritual.
"Tomorrow sparklers?" he asked.
"Saturday night. Driveway. With Mom watching. Deal?"
"Deal."
She kissed his forehead.
Left the door cracked.
Downstairs, mother and daughter talked until 2 a.m.
Elena cried.
Kayla held her.
Upstairs, Troy opened the notebook one last time.
Drew the three of them on the porch steps.
Small figures under stars.
No flames.
Just light.
He closed it.
Turned off the lamp.
Slept.
Deep.
Dreamless.
The storm was still there—somewhere far off.
But tonight, it rained somewhere else.