The Last Ember

My mother bought the old Harbinger Seed & Supply building about fourteen months ago. It’s a monstrous brick structure, four stories if you count the basement and the attic, with a faded sign swinging over the door that creaks in the wind like a broken promise. The main floor is our flower shop, bright and fragrant, filled with roses and lilies that almost mask the musty odor of age. But upstairs, things are different. The loft is drafty and cluttered with old ledgers from the 1920s, and the attic—well, the attic is something else entirely. It’s been sealed off for decades, not since the 1960s when it was rented out as a cramped efficiency apartment. Nobody’s been up there since we moved in. We just use it for storage, tossing boxes of holiday decorations and vases through the trapdoor without ever stepping foot inside.

Last autumn, my great-aunt Mildred came to visit. She’s a spry woman in her late seventies, with a mind as sharp as a tack and a tongue to match. One afternoon, while my mother was at the wholesaler, Aunt Mildred announced she was going to explore the attic. ‘Been wondering what’s up there for weeks,’ she said, ignoring my protests about the rickety pull-down stairs and the lack of light. She hauled herself up with surprising agility, a flashlight in one hand and a dust mask in the other. I stood at the bottom, listening to her footsteps shuffle across the floorboards above, the occasional creak and muffled curse.

A few minutes later, she called down, her voice muffled and strange. ‘There’s a whole apartment up here! And it’s like someone just walked out—there’s a bed, a dresser, even a stove!’ I climbed the stairs to see for myself. The attic was vast and dim, the flashlight beam cutting through swirling dust motes. The wallpaper was peeling in long, sad strips, revealing horsehair plaster beneath. The air was thick with the smell of old cigarettes and something else—something sour and metallic. Aunt Mildred was standing by a small table, holding a box of Lucky Strike cigarettes. I knew that brand, of course—my great-grandfather, her father, had smoked them his whole life, even when the doctors told him to quit. ‘He used to live here, back in the sixties,’ she said softly. ‘When he was separated from Grandma. I used to visit him here sometimes.’

I didn’t know that. My great-grandfather had died four years ago, and I barely remembered him—just a gruff old man who always had a pack in his shirt pocket. I watched as Aunt Mildred set the box aside and continued sweeping, her dustpan gathering decades of grime. She seemed lost in memory, muttering about how he’d sit by the window and watch the trains go by. I wandered deeper into the attic, shining my phone’s light into the corners. There was an old iron bed frame with a stained mattress, a cracked mirror, and a pile of yellowed newspapers. I felt a chill despite the warmth of the day, and I noticed a small door in the far corner, half-hidden behind a stack of crates.

‘Aunt Mildred, there’s a door here,’ I called. She came over, pushing her dust mask aside. ‘Oh, that was his storage closet, I think. He kept his things in there.’ We pulled the crates away, revealing a narrow door with a warped wooden frame. The knob was tarnished brass, and when I turned it, the door swung open with a groan. Inside, there was a tiny room, no bigger than a walk-in closet. The walls were covered in scorch marks, and the floor was littered with remnants of burnt paper and charred wood. Against the back wall sat a small, blackened metal box, about the size of a shoebox. ‘What the hell…’ Aunt Mildred whispered. She reached in and carefully lifted the box out. It was heavy, and when she set it on the bed, we both stared at it. The surface was covered in soot, but there was an engraving: a name—’E. Blackwood’—and a date: 1962.

Aunt Mildred’s hands trembled as she pried open the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of ash, was a single, still-warm ember. It glowed a deep orange, pulsing like a heartbeat. ‘This was his,’ she said, her voice thick. ‘He told me once he kept a piece of the fire that killed his parents. He said it was a reminder.’ I didn’t know what to say. The ember seemed to pulse faster, and the attic around us grew warmer. Aunt Mildred closed the box quickly, her face pale. ‘We should get out of here,’ she said, suddenly urgent. ‘This place is giving me the creeps.’ We climbed down without another word, and she tucked the box under her arm, muttering that she’d throw it away later.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about that ember, how it glowed like a living thing. I crept downstairs and saw Aunt Mildred sitting in the dark kitchen, the box open on the table. The ember was brighter now, casting reddish light on her face. Her eyes were fixed on it, unblinking. ‘He told me not to let it go out,’ she said, not looking at me. ‘He said if it goes out, he’d have to come back to relight it. But I think he’s already here.’ A cold draft swept through the room, and I smelled smoke—not from the ember, but from something older, like a wet campfire. I grabbed the box and slammed the lid shut. ‘We’re getting rid of this,’ I said, but even as I spoke, I felt a resistance, a surge of heat from the box. Aunt Mildred looked at me with a strange calm. ‘You can’t put it out. It’s been burning for sixty years. It’ll burn forever.’

We took the box to the backyard and dug a deep hole. I threw the box in, expecting it to hiss and die, but the ember just glowed through the dirt, pulsing. We covered it with soil and stamped it down, but I could still feel the warmth beneath my feet. That was two months ago. Aunt Mildred left the next day, and she hasn’t spoken to me since. But every night, I wake up at 3:00 AM to the smell of smoke. And when I look out my window, I see a faint orange glow coming from the spot where we buried the box. Last week, I found a fresh pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes on the porch, unopened. There was no note. Just the pack, sitting there. I haven’t told my mother. I don’t think she’d believe me. But I know, deep down, that my great-grandfather is still out there, waiting for his ember to die so he can come back and relight it. And I’m starting to wonder if he’s already found his way back.

Last night, I finally went to the backyard and dug up the box. The ember was still burning, brighter than ever. I held it in my hands, feeling its heat, and I understood. He’s not going to let it go out. He’s been waiting for someone to find it, to keep it alive. And now, with the box open on my desk, I watch it pulse, and I know that when it finally extinguishes, he’ll be here. I just hope I’m ready.