Coraline smells the air burning. Her house is on fire. The flames engulf her childhood bedroom. She imagines her teddy bear's face melting away, its button eyes falling into the amber, its delicate fur submerged into ashes. The kitchen window once displaying plants is fighting against smoke. The door, the big wooden door, is making way for a hollow home. There is so little urge to walk away from a burning house. There is a greater urge to melt alongside the fire, sweat trickling down her forehead and beads forming at the nape of her neck. Coraline strips away her knitted pink sweater, followed by her jeans, her socks, her underwear, her bra, until she stands bare naked, exposed to the fire. Her body, warm from the layers of clothing, is now breathing a cold gust of air, goosebumps covering her arms and slender thighs. Her face flashes with intervals of orange, of yellow, of a pale white. A new object announces its destruction when the fire crackles or roars or fights against the material resisting it. There are brief moments of fireworks. Coraline stands alone, but in solidarity with the memories that the fire takes away. She watches alongside the moon, glistening in the sky and kept bright in the company of the burning house. There is silence beyond the house, no alarms and no engines to sound a protest. The fire is left to perform as it was meant to. Hours pass before the darkness meets her eyes again. There is ash and smoke signalling her to keep away from the scalding ground left behind. The surrounding grass mourns the absence of bricks and life once carried by the earth. Coraline falls to the ground and spreads her arms, refocusing her gaze into the night sky.