"It hurts—do it," Lina whispered into the flames.
"Do it faster, girl. We don't have all night," a man's voice shouted from the doorway.
Lina poured the oil with hands that trembled but did not stop.
"You're crying. Stop crying and burn it," another voice barked.
She set the bundle on the cracked floorboards and pushed. The cloth caught immediately. Orange licked the rafters. Heat hit her face like a slap. She watched the flame take the cheap coins, the letters, the worn-out locket she had kept like a secret charm.
"Good," the first voice said, closer now. "Make sure nothing points back to us."
Lina pressed her palm to the wood and kept watching the fire claim everything that had kept her alive in the only way left. She tasted smoke and a thin peace.
"I'm sorry," she said to the shape of a life that had hurt her. Her voice was small but steady.
"Save the theatrics," the man said. "Get the rope."
She did not move when the rope came. She did not beg. She did not bargain. She held the edge of the burning floor, listening to the crack of the fire and the soft, careless footsteps of the men who had bought her childhood.
"Come on," one of them said. "You promised we'd have coin for a new shipment. You're not going to ruin the job."
Lina let the smoke fill her lungs. She let it wash
