Tall weeds proved the fire had happened years ago, but when I pushed through the rusted fence I could still smell smoke.
A shaft of light blinded me momentarily, and when I looked again there was a man working at a bench.
“What are you making?” I asked.
He pointed to the sign above us. “I broke the rule – twelve people died.” He raised his head and I saw a flash of intolerable pain.
“Me included,” he added before he wavered and vanished like smoke.
The above story was written in response to the photo prompt supplied by Rochelle on her blog
Other Friday Fictioneers' posts can be found here
Note: I almost didn't enter Friday Fictioneers this week. Why? Because the photo was far too apposite after my daughter suffered a fire at her apartment last Thursday!