When the Fires Burn Out

By Zoe Anastasia

April 27, 1986

The comforting notes of Babushka’s music box make my heart shatter.

What would she have thought, standing in her granddaughter’s shoes, watching the sky morph as radiation pours into the air? Even in the pain, I imagine she would’ve known what to do. How to help. How to make a difference.

But as for me?

I crank the metal handle on the music box out of habit because it’s the only thing I can do. The line inches forward. A Soviet soldier checks each person’s documents before motioning to a blue bus. The bus that will take me from my home.

Grief creeps up my throat.

The same warning echoes throughout the city: Attention! Attention! Due to the accident at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in the city of Pripyat…

Before tears can form, I tune it out and focus on the box. Babushka’s Cuendet music box from Switzerland. She’d painstakingly carved each ornate detail in the wood, making it her own. After years of carefully maintaining it and displaying it on her mantel, she’d finally given it to me.

“Keep it safe, Yulia. Keep it close.” Those words replace the announcement blaring over the speakers.

I shuffle forward with my bag, but the closer I come to the soldier, the more my throat tightens.

The intensity in Babushka’s eyes when she’d said those words haunts me. I hadn’t realized until the nuclear fire how much she’d meant it. As if… as if to protect me. But what good is a simple music box in the face of a radioactive fire?

The ringing notes combine into a beautiful melody, but my hand begins to shake and my timing shatters. The song warps. What am I missing? Had she expected me to understand a hidden meaning?

A couple boards the bus. Soon it will be my turn.

I flip the box. Babushka’s name is etched into the bottom. How many times have I subconsciously traced the letters?

Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

I release a frustrated sigh.

“Documents?” the man barks.

I jump. Jerk the papers forward. I need to pay better attention.

A gas mask muffles his words. I bite my lip. If the authorities are wearing protective gear, how much danger are we truly in?

After a quick scan, he motions toward the bus. “Next!”

But I freeze before the metal steps. My city surrounds me, stone buildings reaching into the oddly glowing sky. Mere hours ago, my brother had gripped my shoulders and ducked his head to meet my gaze. “They need my help to put out the fire, Yulia.” Although he’d steeled his voice, wariness had edged his words.

Tears flood my eyes.

I can’t leave behind my city, my home. My brother.

“Get on the bus, devushka,” the man orders. “Or you’ll slow down the evacuation.”

I clutch my music box to my chest and slip into the stifling metal cage. Women hold crying children. A young boy presses his face against the glass.

I take a seat near the back and try to wipe away my tears as helplessness sets in. Babushka, what do I do?

The precious heirloom lies silent against my dress. I notice a hairline crack along the side of the wood.

Has it always been there?

Peering closer, I edge my nails between the sides just enough to see a sliver of paper within.

I suppress a gasp. Dart a glance at the people around me.

Why had Babushka left a piece of paper in a music box?

I unfold it and recognize her handwriting. Time is the most valuable thing we are given. Use it wisely. Beneath it, she’d marked different numbers, directions, and years in a chart.

I blink.

It’s a timeline. With directions for cranking the handle of the music box. Forward, backward. Wouldn’t moving it backward break it?

My heart races as I read her words again. She’d pressed her pen so hard into the paper that “time” stood out. On the back, she’d drawn a clock. An arrow beside the arms points backward.

Babushka’s warning returns to me. “Keep it close.”

This box is more than a musical heirloom.

I fumble as I open it once more to reveal the metal drum and comb inside. It gleams like never before.

Like the heartbeat of magic pulsing within.

I cover my mouth.

Babushka had… she’d given me a time machine?

No. That’s crazy. The thought of leaving home has driven me to wishful thinking. I force myself to look out the window at my city. To say goodbye.

The bus door slams. The driver sits in his seat. My heart somersaults.

How can I make a difference, even with a time machine? I’m only a girl. I don’t know what happened at Chernobyl—only that my brother had been called in to help.

Do I wait for the fires to burn out? To see what fate lies ahead?

Or go back… in hopes of reversing the nuclear disaster? Or at least saving my brother?

The bus lurches forward, peeling away from the curb. We pass building after building. On a path to leave behind my home and family.

Time is moving too fast…

With shaking hands, I read the paper Babushka had entrusted to me. Three days in the past, three backward cranks of the handle.

Babushka wouldn’t have given me a time machine if she didn’t want me to use it. She believed I could make a difference.

Through the speckled glass, I watch smoke pouring from the power plant in the distance, polluting the sky. There, my brother is fighting a monstrous fire.

I won’t leave him to do it alone. I’ll find a way to prevent it.

I take a deep breath.

And crank the handle backward.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Zoe Anastasia writes vibrant, yearning-filled stories that illuminate even the darkest places. When she isn’t daydreaming about magical whales with cities atop their backs and butterflies who can speak, she’s usually watching live storm chasers on YouTube or learning with fellow writers in the Author Conservatory. She also runs Sleeves by Anastasia, a bookish shop filled with bookmarks and book sleeves to protect your precious tomes from dragons.

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