Annabelle hadn’t talked since her mom died of cancer last autumn. Her mother’s death was a painful one, four years of chemicals injected into her meek body. Annabelle was at a loss for words since the incident, until one dreary Tuesday.

“Annabelle, dear, I’m going to the bank for a quick shift.” Her father said.

She nodded sheepishly; this was a usual day for her. She headed into her organized room and sat at the bay window. When out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a red-orange speck growing bigger like a monster as seconds passed. Afraid and in panic, she remember what her father had told her when there was a fire. Annabelle darted to get the phone. Pressing the three numbers, a deep voice asked:

“What is your emergency?”

“There’s a-“her voice was cut off and would never speak again. For she is gone.