Listen to Your Inner Voice

Listen to yourself, Emily heard herself say.

Emily, we agreed. Granddads waiting, Helen called from the doorway, clutching a bag of treats for the old man. The jars of jam clinked dully as she crossed the threshold.

Grace tore herself away from the laptop, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were raw from hours of cramming notes, and a heavy fatigue pressed on her temples.

Mum, I cant. My exams are tomorrow. I need at least a day to lie down, she whispered.

Lie down, did you say? Helen snapped, displeased. Your granddads blood pressure is all over the place; he lives alone in that little hamlet, and you want to lie down? Youre selfish, Emily.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway. Mark appeared behind his wife, already in his travel coat.

Whats the trouble now? he surveyed Graces room, a landscape of textbooks and printed sheets.

Your daughter refuses to go to granddads, Helen said, exasperated. Shes tired, you see.

Marks brow furrowed. He rarely meddled in his wifes quarrels with their child, but something in his usually impassive face shifted.

Emily, thats over the line. Granddad isnt getting any younger. We havent seen him for a month, Mark said.

Grace slumped back in her chair, a flicker of irritation sparking in her chest, though she forced herself to stay calm.

Dad, I get it. But Im barely standing on my own two feet. Let me come next weekend, just for a full day. Ill sit with him, have a proper chat, she pleaded.

Youre always thinking of yourself! Helen raised her voice. Next weekend, next month, next year! And granddad sits there alone! Seventytwo years old, and his granddaughter cant tear herself away from a computer!

Mum, enough, Grace said, her voice cracking.

No, its not enough! Do you ever think of anyone but yourself? Your father and I are slogging away like mad, and you cant even manage a single day with your own granddad! Helens tirade swirled like a storm.

Grace pressed her lips together. Inside, a stubborn resistance rosea vague, inexplicable reluctance to travel that she could not name. Fatigue, yes, but also a phantom premonition that she needed to stay.

Im not going, she declared firmly. Sorry.

Mark shook his head.

Then sit here and rest. Just dont be surprised when granddad stops calling you his beloved granddaughter, he warned.

Mark, dont start, Helen grabbed his sleeve. Lets go. Talking to her is pointless.

They left, slamming the front door shut. Grace remained motionless for a long while, listening to the fading echo of their footsteps on the stairs, the distant rumble of a car in the driveway. At last she exhaled, stretched toward her laptop, and settled into the quiet that wrapped the flat like a soft cocoon.

She flung the windows wideMay air, warm and fresh, drifted in with the faroff hum of the city. She brewed a cup of tea, positioned herself at the desk, and finally let herself relax.

The clock struck twofifteen when Grace finally drifted awake. She stretched, the sound of her joints cracking, and shuffled toward the kitchen for a biscuit when a strange scent slipped into her nostrils.

At first she ignored itperhaps neighbours were barbecuing, the street wafting meat. But the odor thickened, sharpened. Not a grill, not cooking. Something was burning.

Grace rose, moving toward the balcony. With each step the smell grew strongerbitter, acrid, tinged with a synthetic chemical note. She flung the balcony door open and froze.

The sofa was aflame, black smoke choking the room.

No, no, no! she shrieked.

She lunged at the couch. A halfburned cigarette lay on the upholstery, its orange tip still glowing, tossed from the balcony and carried by the wind straight inside.

Grace bolted to the kitchen. Her hands trembled as she yanked a pot from the cupboard. The tap dribbled water at a glacial pace, agonisingly slow. Not waiting for it to fill, she hoisted the heavy pot and raced back.

The first pot poured over the smouldering patch, but the foam inside kept smoking. She darted back for a second potthen a third. Water hissed over the sofa, streamed across the floor, seeped down the skirting boards.

Only after the fourth pot did the smoke begin to thin. Grace stood amid the wreckage, breathing hard, arms soaked to the elbows. The couch had become a mush of singed fabric and soggy foam. The flat reeked of burnt synthetics.

She sank onto the wet floor, knees drawn to her chest. The adrenaline ebbed, a shiver ran through her. A latecoming terror pierced her as she realised what might have happenedif shed left with her parents, if the flat had been empty, if her own nose hadnt caught the smell in time.

The house would have burned down. Their home, with all its papers, keepsakes, memories.

Grace fumbled for her phone and dialed her mother.

Mum her voice cracked at the first syllable.

Emily? Whats wrong? Helen answered.

Mum, there was a fire. More like a start. I put it out, but the sofa theres no sofa any more.

Silence hung on the line. Then Helen spoke.

Are you alright? Emily, are you okay?

Yes, yes, Im fine. The cigarette came from the balconyI didnt notice at first, but I managed to douse everything with water. I didnt call the fire brigade; I handled it myself.

Were coming, Marks voice cut in from somewhere offscreen, having snatched the phone from Helen. Stay inside, dont go anywhere. Were on our way.

The call dropped.

Grace remained on the floor, staring at what had just been their beloved sofaold, worn, the one Helen had bought when Emily was twelve. Theyd watched films under a shared blanket, Emily had sobbed over her first broken heart on it, her father had dozed after long shifts.

Now it was a smoking heap.

An hour later the lock clicked. The front door burst open and Helen stormed in, hair dishevelled, eyes reddened.

Emily! she cried, sprinting down the hallway, barreling into the living room and stopping as if rooted to the spot. Her gaze fell on the charred couch, the puddles of water, the black soot streaks on the wall. Then she rushed to her daughter, who was perched on the arm of a chair.

Lord Helen whispered, stepping forward and hugging Emily hard enough to feel the bones creak. Mothers scent was a mix of perfume, sweat, and something elsefear.

Im sorry, Helen murmured into Emilys hair. Im sorry for everything I shouted this morning. For calling you selfish, irresponsible My God, how foolish I was.

Emily held her mother back, words stuck deep inside, unwilling to surface.

Mark entered behind them, slowly walking around the room, assessing the damage. He brushed a charred patch on the wall, sank down by the ruined sofa, poked at the melted foam with a finger.

Well done putting it out, he finally said. Smartlots of water at once.

I didnt think; I just acted on autopilot, Emily replied.

You did exactly right. The important thing is you didnt panic, Mark added, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. Good job, Em. You saved our house.

Helen stepped back, wiping tears from the back of her hand, smearing makeup across her cheeks without noticing.

Do you realise what would have happened if youd gone? she asked, voice trembling. The flat would have sat empty, windows open. The fire would have devoured everything

Mum, I understand, Emily said.

Listen. Wed have come back to a ruin, or the whole block could have gone up in flames. The Petts down the stairwell have two kidsimagine that! Helen gestured wildly.

Mark hugged his wifes shoulders.

Len, enough. It didnt happen, so stop overthinking it, he said.

But Helen could not stop. Tears streamed down her face, unrestrained.

I yelled at you this morning, called you selfish. And you you saved us all.

Mum, why are you like this? Emily said, gently patting her mothers arm. I didnt know it would end like this. I was just exhausted and wanted to stay.

Thats the point! Helen seized Emilys shoulders, looking straight into her eyes. You didnt know, but something inside you knew. Intuition, a gut feelingcall it what you will. It kept you here and saved us.

Mark snorted, lacking his usual scepticism.

Mothers tend to dramatise, but shes right. If you hadnt stuck it out, thank heavens you did.

The rest of the day unfolded in a strange numbness. Mark carted the sofa remains to the tip, Emily washed the floor, Helen scrubbed soot from the walls. They worked in silence, punctuated by brief, clipped remarks.

By evening the flat looked almost normal again. Only a vacant rectangle on the floor marked where the sofa had been.

They ate dinner at the kitchen table, pulling chairs together. Helen tossed spaghetti with sausages together quickly, mindlessly.

You know, Em, she said, stirring her tea, Ill tell you something important.

Grace lifted her eyes from the plate.

Listen to your gut. Always. Even if it sounds foolish, even if everyone else tells you youre wrong. If something inside nudges you, dont argue with it.

Mark nodded, chewing the last of his sausage.

Thats true. Ive lived on logic all my life, calculations. But sometimes something clicks in your head and you just know what to do.

Today that something saved our home, Helen added.

Emily stared down at her plate, a shy smile playing on her lips. She wasnt used to such words from her mother; their conversations usually crackled, snapped, rang like a bell. Now something had shifted.

Something fragile yet real had formed between the three of themperhaps fear, perhaps relief, perhaps the recognition of how close theyd come to disaster.

Well go to granddads next weekendall of us, Emily said. Well tell him well, not everythinghis heart might not take it.

Right, Helen replied dryly. Well say the sofa wore out. Well get a new one.

Ill bring a bucket of water up to the balcony, Mark added with a grin.

They laughed, nervous, releasing the days tension.

Outside, darkness settled. The city lights flickered on, a distant siren wailedperhaps an ambulance, perhaps a fire engine. Emily listened to the sound and shivered.

Today shed learned something vital. Not just about intuition and premonitions, but about herselfabout acting when needed, not wilting or panicking, but doing what must be done.

And about her parents. Beneath their shouts and reproaches lay a fearfear of losing her, fear that something might happen to herclumsy, twisted, expressed through complaints and notes, but ultimately love.

Helen gathered the dishes and began washing. Mark retreated to another room, hunting online for new sofas. Emily stayed at the table, warming her hands over a steaming mug.

A perfectly ordinary Sunday evening, except it was anything but ordinary.

Mum, she called.

Em? Helen turned from the sink, eyes meeting Emilys with a long, strange look, then a weary, warm smile.

Thank you. For coming back. For not shouting. For just being.

Helens voice cracked, then steadied.

Thank you, Em, for everything.