Cinders of the Conspiracy

Ashes of the Beginning.

When Eleanor Wickham woke up, her nose were filled with an overpowering odor. Her mind was cloudy as her eyelids fluttered open, but she was startled awake by the stinging, bitter flavor of smoke. She bolted upright, panic rushing through her veins. Unsettling shadows that danced to a macabre beat were cast by an odd orange glow that flickered across the walls of her bedroom.

There was a lot of heat and fear in the air. Her heart thumping like a drum, she staggered to her feet. Every second the muted crackle of flames became louder as it reverberated throughout the home. She opened the door to her hallway and was met by a blast of intense heat, which made her skin wet with sweat.

The walls' borders were kissed by flames, their flaming tendrils devouring everything in their path. Eleanor was unable to pause and ponder as the smoke gnawed at her lungs, making her breath catch. Her shaky hands were reaching for the little wooden box that had been her husband's last present before he passed away while her feet brought her toward her dresser.

"Where is it?" she whispered frantically as her fingers finally touched the box's smooth surface. She grabbed it and held it close to her chest, feeling a wave of relief.

She had to navigate a maze of falling timbers and broken glass to get to the entrance. As though taunting her at every turn, the fire blazed louder. She threw open the front door and staggered into the cool embrace of the night with one last rush of energy.

Coughing hard as the fresh air struggled to get into her lungs, she fell to the soggy grass. Behind her, her house was devoured by the flames with unrelenting ferocity. She clasped the box tightly in her arms as she stared at the conflagration, tears stinging her eyes.

Someone desired for her to burn.

Eleanor sat with the wooden box on her lap under the starry sky, her hands shaking. The dark walnut surface was singed and damaged, and it was smaller than she remembered. Her heart continued to hammer in her chest, but her breath steadied.

Her mind was full of questions as she traced the detailed designs on the lid. Why had her late husband, Thomas, taken such care to conceal this box? The ashy scent of the air and the approaching sirens in the distance didn't calm her down.

She clicked the box open and opened it. It contained a little, tarnished key and a folded piece of parchment, its edges burned but undamaged. As Eleanor unfurled the paper and saw her husband's exquisite handwriting contrasted with the old page, her stomach grew knotted.

"They've located me, Eleanor, if you're reading this. I prayed this would never happen. You are unaware of how deeply hidden the truth is. Never put your trust in anyone, even those who say they will protect you.

Her heartbeat accelerated. The words of the letter weighed heavily on her as she read them again. Never put your trust in anyone. She felt cold to her core as the statement replayed in her head.

The smooth, chilly key in her hand had no apparent use. In her hand, she flipped it over, looking for any hint. What was it able to unlock? Confusion and fear raged through her mind.

She was startled out of her reverie by the sound of approaching footsteps. She snapped the box shut after repackaging the letter and key inside. As he drew closer, the fire marshal's gloomy visage was illuminated by his flashlight.

"Miss Wickham," he continued softly, "I have some questions for you."

The fire marshal stopped a few feet away, and Eleanor squinted against the strong beam of the flashlight. The smell of ash permeated the air and blended with the burned remains of her house.

Her voice was raspy from the smoke as she questioned, "What happened?"

The marshal answered, "That's what we're here to figure out." Even though he was tired, there was a piercing intensity in his eyes. "Miss Wickham, do you have any enemies?"

Her fingers tightened around the box as she repeated, "Enemies?" "No, I no. Not in my opinion.

The marshal looked at one of his colleagues and then took a step forward. In the rubble, we discovered accelerant traces. There was no accident in this fire.

Eleanor gasped for air. "Are you implying that it was intentionally set?"

The marshal gave a somber nod. Indeed. Someone was determined to make sure the house burned down.

She kept herself upright even though her knees felt like they were about to give up. "I don't comprehend. Why would somebody act in this way?

The marshal answered, "I was hoping you could tell me." "Did your husband have any connections or transactions that could account for this?"

She couldn't get Thomas's letter's warning out of her head. Never put your trust in anyone. After a moment of hesitation, she shook her head. "Not that I am aware of."

With an inscrutable expression, the marshal examined her. "You let us know if anything comes to mind."

Eleanor gripped the box tighter as he turned back to face the smoldering debris. She now held something in her hands that the person who had done this was after.

They were going to come for her again soon, and the truth was buried.

In the darkness, the embers from the burning remnants of her house drifted upward like fireflies in a never-ending dance. With the wooden box placed precariously on her knees, Eleanor sat on the curb's edge. Her eyes skimmed the mysterious note within, her husband's handwriting as incisive and methodical as a blade.

She couldn't yet answer the questions that kept coming to her mind. Never put your trust in anyone. What was Thomas trying to say? Why did this box feel heavier than its scant contents justified, and who were "they"?

A twinge of discomfort shattered her daydream. Her chest constricted as she felt watched. She raised her eyes slowly.

A figure stood still across the street, half hidden by the wavering light of a streetlamp. The form of the watcher, a tall, broad-shouldered guy, was clearly visible while being obscured by the long shadows of a far-off oak tree. His presence was as purposeful as it was unsettling.

Eleanor's heartbeat accelerated. The key inside pressed against her hand as she tightened her hold on the box. The weight of his gaze froze her for a moment, causing her breathing to become irregular and shallow. Then the figure moved slightly, the light catching a glimpse of something metallic at his side, as though sensing her increasing terror.

Her knees trembled as she rushed to her feet, but her will was greater. She kept her worry hidden from him. She took a step back toward the safety of the fire marshal's flashlight, clutching the box tightly. The figure remained still. He maintained his posture, his head cocked as if evaluating her.

Her throat caught as she spoke. Shall she yell? Run? Before she could make up her mind, the figure turned and disappeared into the night, leaving just the sound of her heartbeat.

Standing in the fire marshal's truck's flickering light, Eleanor's hands shook. Now securely tucked inside her coat pocket, the mysterious note weighed heavily on her. Her thoughts were racing, reliving the wordless danger that accompanied the watcher's exit as well as his silhouette.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" Her thoughts were interrupted by the fire marshal's voice. Even though he was tired, his eyes looked into hers with real compassion.

Although the word stumbled on her lips, she lied and said, "Yes." "I'll get by."

He didn't appear persuaded. The cause is currently being investigated, but you should be aware of it. He lowered his voice. "This person knew what they were doing."

She glanced at the charred remains of her home and nodded absently. Except for the box, everything was gone. It was still there, a menacing reminder of a life now shrouded in doubt.

Eleanor's determination solidified as the fire marshal stepped aside. The warning in her husband's letter was too important for her to ignore. Thomas had lost his life because of whatever he had left behind. It endangered hers now.

Who could she trust, though? The police? No, there were too many unresolved issues regarding their dependability. Friends? No one was close enough for her to confide in. Despite the pressure of her loneliness on her chest, her resolve remained unwavering.

She took another look at the box, her image barely visible on its gleaming exterior. Answers were hidden somewhere in the ashes of her past life. To unlock them, both literally and symbolically, she only needed to locate the appropriate key.

She took a deep breath and looked away. One thing was clear even though she didn't yet have all the answers: whoever wanted her quiet would have to put up a stronger battle. Eleanor Wickham refused to die before learning the truth.