Smoke billowed from her father's apartment, filling the hallway. The fire consumed her father's body, the clothes she had killed him in, and the past she had been trying to escape. She felt neither warmth nor cold from the sunlight racing through the windows. She felt surreal, floating above the clouds. No anchor to hold her down, no chains to hold her back. Like a clown, she always pretended to be mirthful. That clown now burned like her father, like the shadows of her past. She was no longer a captive. But even ashes have shadows.