A short story by Gregory Wood, read it here. Note that lover is in pink. This is where his story took me:
Vandals had taken over the village. Lover burned and burned, like a hamlet in majestic Britain had never burned before. Or at least, not right in front of Edward’s eyes.
It started with a phone call urging him not to come home tonight. His mother’s terrified shrieks bade him to do the contrary, and he drove to Lover at breakneck speed.
By the time he drove onto School Road, the school stood fully ablaze. The basketball court miserably scorched, the front-lawn trees igniting one after the other, the sweltering heat waves increasing in frequency and vigor, the tumultuous ash flakes stinging his eyes and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
He jumped right back in and headed for St Mary’s Close, where his parental home promised to be the next victim. His mother flung three bulging grocery bags onto the back seat, hurled herself into the passenger seat, and while buckling up, urged him to drive.
The firemen had been alerted, but they were nowhere in sight. To avoid the now unbearable smoke, Edward detoured via Besomer Drive and headed down Christ Hill, to join the other villagers. Out of the way of the fiery debris, they watched the fire spread to St Mary’s Close.
The firemen came, but so did the wind. And it changed direction. Soon, all villagers were pushed back to Black Lane, from which they could only vaguely guess at the inferno’s progression.
And then, the shouts began: Christ Hill was alight. The bit of ground that had not yet crumbled from underneath his feet now did. He looked around in a frenzy, followed suit by his mother. No Mary. Which meant, no Kristof. The sprint to the policemen fending off people begging for a second to run back to their homes was lost in the memories he kept of the event the day after.
As was much else. The only remembrances had been seared right into his heart: the policeman staring at him in jolting horror as Edward screamed; his face when he broke the news that Kristof’s house had been lost already.
Mary had gone out for the evening, leaving her comatose son home alone. After ten years of waking by his side, they all knew he’d never wake up.
Edward, his mother, Mary and all their neighbors were evacuated. From the balcony of his hotel room, Edward saw past the tiny cars, the oblivious vehicles heading for a destination that he would never reach. Instead, he saw the lawn they had played on, the basketball court they had challenged each other on, the scariness and happiness of the confession, of the first kiss, the house they considered buying, for a life together. Ten years ago.
His Lover now dead, Edward jumped.
