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July 20, 2019
The sound of the firestorm was unsettling, both then and now. As I reflect on the events of that day and my escape, the sound of the storm is what I remember. The howl haunts me in the quiet evening hours. In the silence, I hear carried within that memory a threat: there is something unfinished, a sense of interruption, of a delay rather than an end, a presence waiting. My memory recalls more than an echo: what I hear is animated and lives, it has the power to rise up and overwhelm my judgement. I cannot stop the sound.