The county Fire Department responded in record time. Only minutes after the fire had begun, hose laden trucks were on the scene, dosing the flaming town house. Still, part of the roof and most of the second floor would collapse. The skeleton of the old Gilbert house couldn't withstand the weight of the fire damage and the water load and the burden of silent semi-present memories.
Memories of a home that had been torn apart and built back up, again and again, and each time with a little less to build from.
The wreckage would smolder for hours and one fatality would be reported.
Mystic Falls' newly hired mortician placed an urgent call to Sheriff Elizabeth Forbes that evening. Working late in his lab, he was standing over the corpse of Jeremy Gilbert. The boy's chest was bisected, charred flesh pinned back, revealing both of his impossibly pink lungs.
There were no signs of smoke inhalation, he would inform the Sheriff in a dire tone. The boy was dead before the fire
Liz would thank the man for the call, hang up and press her forefingers to her temples.
The mortician didn't even make it to the parking lot.
Immersed in a voice that was like bright lights and winding clocks, he understood nothing and everything in perfect symmetry. He knew that he had encountered no one on his way home, had never phoned the sheriff, and had discovered nothing out of the ordinary on the job that night. Any and all records or notes stating anything different should be destroyed and replaced as soon as possible.
After doing so, he got into his car and drove straight home, quite at ease.
And that would be the last anyone, in any official capacity, questioned the death of Jeremy Gilbert.
Elena got the call on her cell phone; the fire, the 'our condolences ma'am, but we've identified your loved one's remains', to expect calls from the police, to inform her insurers, and 'again, our apologies, but nothing could be salvaged.'
The last bit seems comical, and the corner of her mouth quirks up when she snaps her phone shut.
"What is it?" Damon asks. His cold blues haven't moved from her since they set foot in the boardinghouse. He's waiting for something, and frankly, boring her.
"Nothing was salvaged." Elena repeats, unmistakably proud.
Damon tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. "And that's good?
Elena rolls her eyes and hops onto a leather lounge chair in the boardinghouse den. With her eyes closed, she stretches out in a satisfying arch. Her smile grows, and she thinks of how nice it is to have nowhere in particular to be just then. She feels so very content and not at all like explaining to Damon how good it is to know it's all gone. The photo albums, the letters, the bedframes, the antiques, the hand-me-downs. And most of all, the journals.
Every dream and every lie reduced to smoke and dust.
"Very good."