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Station 2 was built back when engines were pulled by horses and the calls came in by bell. You can still see the iron hitch posts sunk into the brick out back—if you know where to look.
It’s the oldest active station in Seattle. It’s been condemned more times than I can count, but they keep patching her up—like some part of the city would collapse without her. They’re not wrong.
But it’s more than a station. It’s a sanctuary.
You walk these halls with reverence, surrounded by the saints who came before you—men who ran into the fiery furnace without ever bending the knee.
I spent twelve years inside these walls, and I never once thought they’d spit me out—though I often wondered if I’d ever return.
Coming home’s never what you expect. It gives more than it takes, and still takes something every time.
A home remembers what you’d rather forget.
It holds the heat of old arguments, the echo of slammed doors, the slow settling of dust over everything left unsaid.
And sometimes, it’s not a refuge. It’s a prison.
You walk its rooms like a man passing through his own memory—familiar, yes, but not always welcome.
Still, there’s no place like it.
Because nowhere else knows who you are when no one’s looking.
The station’s quiet now. But quiet here isn’t peaceful. It’s expectant.
The Chief’s door is open. His lamp throws a narrow circle across the desk—papers stacked like gravestones, a stained mug that says “This is Probably Whiskey,” bleeding coffee onto the map of the district.
He’s hunched in the dark like something carved down by wind and time, not built but worn into shape—part man, part monument to all that couldn’t be saved.
I knock once.
No answer.
He doesn’t look up.
“Close the door behind you.”
I do.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just keeps looking at something on the desk.
“Coffee?”
“I’m good.”
“Didn’t ask if you’re good. Asked if you want coffee.”
I shake my head.
He nods, like that’s the answer he expected. Doesn’t take it personal.
“Sit.”
I move a crumpled Dunkin’ bag and a sun-faded Red Sox cap off the seat before I sit. He doesn’t look up.
“You sleeping at all?”
“Enough.”
“Liar.”
He says it flat. No heat. Takes a bite of an old fashioned.
“Eating?” he asks, mouth full.
“Not hungry.”
“I bet.”
He leans back. The chair groans. The room’s quiet except for the faint buzz of a ballast light dying slow.
I flick the lighter open. Closed. Open again.
“I’ve been doing this a long time, Trusov.”
“I know.”
“I’ve seen good men get swallowed whole. One minute they’re pulling bodies out of basements, the next they’re living out of a truck in Aberdeen.”
“I’m not there.”
“Not yet.”
He scratches his neck. The stubble there’s long turned gray.
“You’re thinking of quitting?”
“Thinking.”
The chief sighs like he’s seen this ending before. He studies me.
“You want my blessing or my opinion …
“Thinking’s fine. But I’ve watched enough guys pretend they’re thinking when really they’re just waiting for someone else to make the call.”
I don’t respond.
He looks back down at what he was working on. “City dispatch rotation.” He doesn’t look up. Shakes his head.
“You know how many guys we’ve lost this month? Not to retirement. Not to transfers. To fire.”
“It’s dry.”
“Dry doesn’t cover it. It’s a fuckin’ tinda’box out there. We’ve been sending crews to the Cascades every other week. City’s bleedin’ boots. They’re even pulling from reserves. Hell, they’re asking about watcha’s.”
“Watchers?”
“Yeah. Like the old towers. Forest lookouts. They’re trying to cover the whole damn mountain range with ghosts and binoculars.”
I say nothing. Flick the Zippo again.
“I need men here, Aiden. But not broken ones.”
“Then you’re running out of options.”
“Don’t be a cunt. You were one of the good ones. You still could be.”
“I don’t feel like much of anything.”
“That’s the problem. You don’t feel. You flick that damn lighter like you’re waiting for something to catch.”
I stay silent.
“Take time. Step back. Don’t turn it into some dramatic exit. Just disappear for a bit. Then, if you still want out, walk. But don’t make me find out you bled out quietly in some shitty motel outside Tacoma.”
“I don’t plan on bleeding.”
“Nobody does.”
He pauses. Runs his hand down his face.
“Look, if you do come back—and that’s an if—come back with something left to give.”
I stand.
“You’ll let me know where you end up?”
“Sure,” I lie.
“You ever consider the tower jobs?” he adds, offhand. “Solitude, wind, nothing but trees and radio static. Might suit your disposition.”
I glance at him.
I thumb the Zippo one more time.
“They hiring?”
He just nods, like the matter’s closed. Like I’m already gone.
I step out into the hallway. The quiet’s the same, but it lands different. Like the building knows what I’m about to run from.
I check my watch.
Plenty of time to make the meeting.
Nothing like sobriety and short shorts to keep a man grounded.
Next episode: The Spark »
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Step Into the Fire: Burn Season’s Immersive Storyworld on X
While Burn Season unfolds one episode at a time, the story doesn’t stop between updates.
Follow the characters in real time on X.com as they post their thoughts, fears, and fragments of the truth they’re barely holding onto.
Each character has their own X account—so you’re not just reading their story.
You’re living alongside them.
The first account is now live:
@firelinevigil – Aiden Trusov, the former firefighter turned firewatcher, spiraling into isolation and paranoia deep in the Washington wilderness.
Through Aiden’s posts, you’ll get:
Unfiltered glimpses into his unraveling thoughts
Strange dispatches from the tower
Clues hidden in plain sight
Raw emotional tension as the fire season creeps closer
More character accounts will unlock as new episodes drop.
Follow them to catch hidden details, backstory reveals, and eerie connections that never show up in the main text.