My name is Lily Harper. I’m seventeen years old, graduating in three weeks, and every good thing in my life exists because one old man refused to let tragedy finish what the fire started.
When I was a baby, our house burned down in the middle of the night.
I don’t remember the flames.
I don’t remember the smoke.
I don’t remember my parents dying.
But I grew up hearing the story from neighbors, firefighters, teachers, church friends, and eventually from Grandpa himself when I was old enough to ask hard questions.
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