When the fire first started my thoughts instantly went to my books. Most were common fairy tales but several were “priceless” manuscripts from people long dead. I rushed from my room to the library just across the hall, flames singeing my pajamas and smoke filling my lungs. I couldn’t save all of them, and the thought tugged at my soul. I looked to the center bookshelf which was already in the process of being consumed by the flames. I braced myself before thrusting my hands into the growing inferno. I pulled out a single book and clutched it to my chest, its faded red cover smoldering slightly. I curled my arms around it, protecting it from any more damage and sprinted for the front door. The door knob was glowing faintly in the heat so I threw all of my weight onto the door. It fell forwards with an ear-splitting crack. I quickly picked myself and my treasure off of the ground and ran towards the street where firemen already stood, sending a stream of water at my home. I steadied myself on the fire engine before gingerly opening my book. I flipped through pages of faded photographs of my family. Tension drained out of my body at the sight of my saved memories, the last gift from my mother.
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