Soft hands rock me back and forth out of sleep: “Wake up, there’s a fire.” It’s true; flickering against the black horizon from my window, I see an amber blur far away. There are lights from homes dotted around, white and tiny in comparison. The squared shapes of the buildings are shadowed by the inferno, and a puff of smoke rises up into the sky like orange cotton.

It’s cold outside. The wind whips past us as we walk, snatching at our dressing gowns and biting at our exposed ankles. The wind sails west, as we see the soot-black smoke that billows from the explosion heading towards us. Not far away, we find a footbridge arching over a quiet railway. Isolated from the city, there are no lights apart from a patch of deep blue sky that’s been burnt back to life by the fire. The train tracks beneath sharpen off into a dense acre of pine trees, which through the needle-like canopy, the amber blaze can be seen burning, the wispy tips of the flames licking above the trees and twisting in an exotic, unfamiliar dance. We’re silent as we stare at the sky. A pillar of light stretches high from the fire. Golden, as though the eruption has formed an elevator of fire leading up to the heavens.

It’s not long before the ring of alarms rattles over the sleeping city. Firefighters blare out in the distance, multiple engines bleating their warnings and cutting each other’s cry off. Standing safely miles away, leaning against the metal railings, watching the fires roar on in the distance, suddenly fills me with a nauseous feeling. Despite all the people that have amassed on this bridge, we’re stood here while a fire gnaws away at structures, at lives, at our city, and we watch with rapid attention for something to happen. Unaware that the wind is  now a warm hug and smells of an unpleasant odour. 

And of course, something does happen. With the alarms crying in the background, the community of bodies are a few seconds too late to see the first few snowflakes. From the blackened clouds above, we’re gifted with white specks swirling in the wind. We turn our eyes away from the blaze briefly as our children spring to life at this early hour, tiny hands swiping at the air and twirling in the confetti of snow. Laughter slowly rumbles out of them as the snow grows heavier, but their joyful cries don’t quite wash out the ongoing sirens.

A woman next to me gazes after her son and daughter, a sleepy smile on her face and I watch as the snow land on her cheeks, black against her white skin.