ASHES OF YESTERDAY

PART 1-EMBERS OF CHILDHOOD

PROLOGUE-THE BOARDROOM

Chase adjusted the cuff of his suit and stared at the reflection in the glass wall across from him. The city glittered below, a thousand lights blinking in patterns that felt too much like fire. His name would be announced in less than ten minutes, the youngest CEO in the history of the Hamilton Press. A legacy, they called it a triumph.

But triumph didn’t feel like this.

The polished mahogany table stretched in front of him, a symbol of power, of permanence. Still, all Chase could think of was a different table-scarred wood, set with his mother’s chipped bowls, and the way Jay used to laugh too loudly in that cramped kitchen.

Jay.

The name scraped like ash in his throat. His older brother was back in town for the ceremony, having flown in from wherever his camera had last taken him. Chase had seen his name on the guest list and felt that old spark of anger, the kind that smoldered and never quite went out.

People thought the fire ended that night.

But Chase knew better.

For him and Jay, it had only just begun.

CHAPTER 1 

The courtyard was always louder than the street. It gathered voices and rolled them around like coins rattling in a tin can—the squeak of the rusted swing, the clink of laundry poles when the wind pushed them, the hiss of oil in a neighbor’s frying pan, a baby wailing somewhere high above, and laughter tumbling after it. Cracks ran across the concrete like dried riverbeds, and tufts of grass forced their way through, stubborn and green. To the three children who played here, it was not just a courtyard. It was a kingdom with stairwells for castles and balconies for towers, the sky a ceiling of pale blue that promised everything was theirs for the day.

Jay Hamilton was eleven, and he always acted as if the number made him commander of all things. He raced along the wall’s edge, his arms pumping with easy certainty, as though he were surveying land he already owned. Chase, just nine, came pounding after him, lighter on his feet, his laugh erupting bright and careless in the warm air.

Anna Rivera followed, smaller, yet no less determined. She was nine too, only a few months younger than Chase, but she looked years younger when they all ran together. Her pigtails flew behind her, her little shoes slapped the ground with sharp insistence, and her face was set with stubbornness.

“You’ll never catch me, Sparrow!” Jay called back, grin wide as he dodged a crack in the pavement.

“Baby rabbit!” Chase shouted, nearly stumbling because his laughter shook his whole body.

Anna’s chest ached, her lungs pulling hard, but she pressed forward. “Sparrows are fast!” she gasped. “Sparrows can dive and stab your eyes!”

Jay slowed just enough to sweep her into his arms and spin her until her squeals turned shrill and her protests dissolved into giggles. He set her down gently, and she staggered, though she refused to fall. “One gust of wind and you’d blow away,” he teased, his voice triumphant.

Anna glared, sticking her tongue out before muttering, “Then maybe I’d fly higher than both of you.”

Chase laughed so hard he toppled sideways into the swing, grabbing the chain for balance. Jay nudged him with his elbow, smirking, and the game shifted into a race without warning. They tore across the cracked basketball court, the faint painted lines still faintly visible, the air thick with the smell of dust and sun-warmed stone.

The courtyard was their stage. The sandbox, half-empty and sprouting weeds, transformed into a battlefield, a castle, or a dragon’s cave, depending on their rules. The swing creaked and groaned but served as their throne. Everything belonged to them, as long as they could claim it first.

Above them, neighbors leaned over balconies, gossiping with folded papers fanning their faces. A radio sputtered static and melody in equal measure. From two blocks away, Anna’s mother’s restaurant sent out a trail of scent that curled through the hot air—plantains fried golden, pepper stew simmering deep and rich, garlic and onions sizzling in a pan. The boys teased Anna about always smelling like the kitchen, but she wore it proudly. It was her mark, her tether to her mother’s world.

The Hamiltons’ apartment loomed on the east side of the complex. Once painted a cream, the walls had faded to a dull yellow-grey. The balcony was strung with laundry, shirts, and skirts snapping like flags whenever a breeze wandered through. Inside, the apartment was neat, though small. Cushions were plumped on the couch, the floor shone from scrubbing, and a single shelf sagged under mismatched books that their mother refused to part with. From a half-open window, her voice hummed a low tune while she folded laundry, the melody slipping into the courtyard as if it were another player in the children’s games.

Their father was not home. He rarely was. His boots sat stiff with dried ink by the door, his coat hanging where he had left it the night before. The smell of paper and machine oil always clung faintly to the fabric. He worked at the printing press across town, his days starting before dawn and ending long after dark. Sometimes he came home with eyes red from strain, hands raw from lifting paper stacks. He would ruffle Jay’s hair, nod to Chase, kiss their mother’s cheek, and retreat to bed before the boys could tell him about their day. Jay noticed it most. He counted the missing footsteps on the stairs, the empty chair at dinner, the way his mother’s smile stretched too thin. He told himself, If I pay attention, if I watch carefully enough, maybe nothing else will slip away.

“Race you to the wall again!” Chase shouted suddenly, already sprinting.

“You cheated!” Anna cried, chasing after him.

“You were born cheating!” Chase shot back over his shoulder. “How are you, nine and the size of a—”

“Repeat rabbit,” Anna warned, her small fists balled tight, “and I’ll make you eat dirt.”

Jay caught Chase by the arm, laughing. “Then he’d grow carrots in his stomach. Might make him stronger.”

Chase twisted free and pretended to stagger dramatically. Anna burst into laughter despite herself, the sound bright and unguarded.

They collapsed against the low wall, breathing hard. The sun pressed against their backs, heavy and insistent. Overhead, laundry snapped in the wind, shadows dancing across the cracked concrete like restless ghosts.

The gate clinked, and Mrs. Rivera stepped through, apron smudged, hair pinned messily back. Her eyes, though tired, were alive with affection—a plastic bag dangled from one hand. “Thieves!” she called, smiling. “I know where you hide. Come confess.”

Chase darted forward before either of the others could move, snatching the bag as if it were treasure. The smell of fried plantains and hot meat pies filled the courtyard, a decadent and irresistible aroma. Anna puffed up with pride; it was her mother’s cooking, her mother’s love poured into food.

Jay hesitated, lowering his gaze. “We should pay,” he said quietly, almost ashamed.

Mrs. Rivera laughed and reached out to smooth his hair. “Your mother gives me songs; I give her boys food. That’s fair.” She pressed the bag into Chase’s eager hands, gave Anna’s cheek a quick squeeze, and disappeared back through the gate, her towel over one shoulder.

They tore into the food along the low wall, knees knocking together, fingers glistening with oil. The first bite always made them silent. For a few minutes, the world narrowed to nothing but sweetness and spice, crunch and heat. Chase stuffed his mouth as if racing an invisible clock, while Anna took small, deliberate bites, and Jay savored his share slowly, watching the others. When the last crumbs were gone, Chase licked his fingers, grinning.

“Your mom’s food could end wars,” he declared.

“Only if the generals didn’t eat it all first,” Jay muttered, wiping his hands on his shorts.

The swing creaked as Anna climbed into it, her small frame swallowed by the chains. “Push me,” she said without looking. Chase obliged, planting his feet and giving a firm shove. The swing rose, carrying her higher, until her hair streamed back and the sky opened wide.

She closed her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. This is what sparrows feel, she thought. This is what they mean when they say fly.

The day stretched long and golden, the kind that felt endless. They never noticed the shadows lengthening, never wondered if tomorrow would change. Tomorrow always came, and the courtyard would always wait. Or so they believed.