The Mysterious Fire

The Mysterious Fire

BY:Ubaid

It was night. The stars shimmered quietly in the dark sky. Javed Balaqi, the coachman, was driving his old carriage along a deserted road. The area he had entered was one of the oldest parts of the town. All the houses there were built of yellow stone, their structures unchanged for decades. It was, by chance, Balaqi’s first visit to this neighborhood.

Turning a corner, he suddenly noticed a crowd gathered a little ahead. They were all staring upward at a two-story building from which smoke was curling out. Curious and alarmed, Balaqi stopped his carriage, stepped down, and quickly walked forward.

It was a small stone house. Flames had erupted on the lower floor, and the residents had managed to escape outside. Among them, a woman was wailing loudly, her cries piercing the night. “Someone help! My daughter is still upstairs!” She was so distraught that another man had to hold her to keep her from rushing toward the fire.

Several people had tried to go inside, but the wooden staircase leading up had already caught fire. Nobody dared to risk it. Balaqi, however, stepped forward. He asked quickly, “Which room is the child in?”

The man restraining the mother pointed upward. “The room to the right.”

Balaqi nodded, removed his long overcoat, and held it across his body as a shield. Then, without hesitation, he ran toward the burning staircase and climbed rapidly. People gasped. Women screamed. A chorus of terrified voices rose: “He’s going into the fire!”

Ignoring the chaos, Balaqi leapt up several steps at a time, pushing past the rising smoke. Luckily, the flames had not yet reached the top floor, but the air was thick and suffocating. He coughed, covering his mouth with the coat, and stumbled toward the right-hand room.

Inside, through the haze, he saw a little girl sitting on the bed, paralyzed with fear. Without a second thought, he rushed forward, lifted her in his arms, and shielded her with the coat as he ran back toward the stairs. The fire below was spreading quickly; time was running out.

With swift steps, he descended. His coat caught fire, but he didn’t stop. At last, bursting through the doorway, he handed the child into her mother’s trembling arms. The woman cried with relief, clutching her daughter tightly. Balaqi threw the burning coat to the ground, shaking his hand, which had been scorched.

The crowd erupted in praise. Men surrounded him, admiring his courage. The grateful mother, tears streaming down her cheeks, thanked him again and again. Soon, the fire brigade arrived. They asked everyone to move back and began extinguishing the flames. A kind neighbor took the woman and her child home for the night.

Balaqi quietly returned to his carriage. His hand stung from the burns, and his fingers were red, but he dismissed the pain. Once home, he treated the wound, ate his supper, and lay down to rest.


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At dawn, Balaqi woke as usual. After breakfast, he prepared his horse, offered it grain and water, and then harnessed it to the carriage. Driving at an easy pace, he went to the marketplace. Stopping at a teahouse, he entered, ordered tea, and unfolded the morning newspaper.

To his surprise, there was no report of last night’s fire. Puzzled, he turned every page again, but still found nothing. Scratching his head, he muttered, “Strange… how could such a fire not be in the news?”

At that moment, he noticed his friend Graham at another table. Graham worked at the newspaper office. Balaqi quickly joined him.

“Good morning, Balaqi,” Graham greeted cheerfully. “Come, have some breakfast.”

“No, I already ate,” Balaqi replied, holding up the paper. “But tell me, why isn’t there any news about the fire?”

“What fire?” Graham asked, confused.

“Last night,” Balaqi explained. “In the northern district—a house caught fire. I went inside myself and saved a child.”

Graham frowned. “That can’t be. I was in the office all night. No such report came in. And if our reporters missed it, the fire department would have informed us. Nothing happened.”

Balaqi stared at him in disbelief. Graham chuckled. “My friend, you must have dreamed it.”

Furious, Balaqi held out his bandaged hand. “Does this burn look like a dream?” He told the entire story in detail, but Graham only shook his head. “You read too many adventure tales. Probably burned yourself while making tea.” Then, glancing at his watch, he stood up. “I must go. We’ll talk later.”

“But I’m not lying!” Balaqi protested.

Waving casually, Graham walked away.

Upset, Balaqi bought another newspaper from a street vendor, but again found no mention of the fire. The more he thought about it, the more restless he became. Finally, he decided to return to the site.


---

By midday, he reached the neighborhood. When his eyes fell upon the house, he froze. It was the very same building—but there was no sign of fire. The stone walls were unscathed, the windows intact, the door unburned. Not a single mark suggested there had been flames the night before.

Stunned, Balaqi parked his carriage and walked slowly toward the house. Across the street, he recognized the water tank he had seen during the rescue. Everything was exactly where he remembered it, except the fire.

Bewildered, he knocked hesitantly at the door. After a moment, it opened, and an elderly woman peered out.

“Yes? What do you want?” she asked politely.

Balaqi cleared his throat nervously. “I—I am Balaqi, the coachman. You see, I was passing through here last night…”

The woman raised her brows. “But I didn’t call for a carriage.”

“No, no,” Balaqi said quickly. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

Her name was Maria. She invited him in, and they sat in the sitting room. For a long while, Balaqi struggled with his words. At last, he said, “Yesterday, I saw this house burning. I even carried out a child. But now—there is no trace of fire.”

Maria’s face showed confusion. “You must be mistaken. This house has never caught fire. And I live here alone. There is no child.”

Balaqi stared, shaken. “Since when have you lived here?”

“Since my childhood,” she replied firmly.

As Balaqi glanced around the room, his eyes fell upon a framed portrait on the mantelpiece. He stood up and asked, “May I look at this?”

“Of course,” Maria nodded.

Holding the frame, Balaqi studied the photograph. It showed a dignified woman. “Who is she?” he asked.

Maria adjusted her spectacles and answered softly, “She was my mother.”

Balaqi’s heart pounded. A chill ran down his spine. What, then, had he really witnessed the night before?

(To be continued…)