He could just watch, mouth opened to let out raspy moans that came deep within his chest. He watched the flames dance and he felt them, like they were burning him instead. He could feel them crawling up his lungs, pressuring and squeezing his heart and all he could do was stay there and watch how they fed on his work, on his passion. He vaguely remembers begging them to stop, to quench the fire, but if he really did it, they ignored him.

He tried to grab the notebooks, neglecting the fire, the pain, because his insides hurt more, but his hand went through them as it did though the fire, letting them crush beneath into dark ashes. He remembers choking on the thick smoke and his own tears and sweat, he remembers his nose aching and his vision blurring. He remembers the hands that tried to drag him away, but he mostly remembers the flames, the consuming fire and the decomposing notebook in his hands. His work for years, his dreams.