Inside, the remnants of a happy milestone were scattered like debris in the wake of a storm.
A half-cut birthday cake, bright with frosting and sugar pearls, sat abandoned on a plastic table-cover, now flanked by spilled juice and the jagged shards of shattered ceramic plates. The living room was a heartbreaking mosaic of frantic escape; tiny, brightly colored shoes were strewn across the carpet, kicked off in the desperate scramble as children were dragged to safety or carried out in the arms of panicked adults. The air, which should have smelled of vanilla and beeswax, was heavy with the acrid, metallic tang of gunpowder and the underlying scent of iron.
