Years went by. I built a career, moved forward, yet the fire lingered in my mind. Then, one day at my new job, the receptionist told me my boss, Linda, wanted to meet. Stepping into her office, I froze at a framed photo of a soot-covered boy in a torn baseball jersey—me.
Linda noticed my reaction. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“That photo…” I whispered. “Where did you get it?”
Linda walked over, touching the frame softly. “That boy saved my life.” She showed a small scar on her wrist—the same hand I’d held as I pulled her from the flames.
“It was me,” I managed, voice thick with emotion. “I’m the boy who saved you.”
She gasped, eyes filling with tears. “I always wondered who you were,” she whispered. Linda explained she’d been placed in foster care after losing her parents in the fire. I was heartbroken by her story yet amazed by the resilient woman she’d become.
In the weeks that followed, our connection grew through shared late-night conversations. One evening, she confessed, “I used to dream of thanking you someday. Now, I dream of us.”
A year later, we stood together on the lot where her childhood home once stood. Wildflowers bloomed where the fire had raged. I took her hand, feeling the weight of a ring box in my pocket. Dropping to one knee, I asked, “Will you be mine, forever?”
With tears in her eyes, she nodded. A butterfly landed on our joined hands, a symbol of beauty where once there had only been ashes.