Chapter 2 – Ashes in Bray
It happened in December 2005. The kind of winter night where smoke rises too quietly to be noticed until it’s too late. William’s house caught fire. His father, Billy Riggs, didn’t survive. The man who once sat quietly in the same living room where Josephine laughed and offered tea—he was gone in a flash of flame and smoke.
The fire left more than just charred walls and broken furniture. It left William without a home, without a father, and without the sense of security he’d built his life around. For weeks, the news made its way around Bray, then faded like most tragedies do from the public eye. But for us—for Josephine and me—it didn’t fade. It changed everything.
Josephine didn’t flinch. She kept her schedule, even though William’s house was now a shell. She traveled down to Bray and sat with him wherever she could—his temporary shelters, his waiting rooms, the homes of relatives who weren’t quite ready to take him in. On her off-days, she returned to me, quieter, heavier with unspoken burdens.
I didn’t go to Bray. That was never my place. My role was different—I became the host for Josephine’s other half of the week. I offered what I could: a warm meal, a place to sleep, and space to unload what she was carrying. William leaned on her. So did I.
What none of us said aloud was that she was holding us both together. The fire may have taken Billy Riggs, but it lit a new kind of pressure under Josephine’s feet: to be everything, everywhere, for everyone.
And somehow, she did it. Until she didn’t have to anymore.