Marcus stood at his bedroom window, watching the Hollywood Hills shimmer in the distance. The "For Sale" contract lay unsigned on his desk, its presence a quiet reproach. After fifteen years, he couldn't bring himself to sign away his dream house without one last sunset from the infinity pool.
"Just one more day," he told his realtor over the phone. "The market's hot. What difference could it make?"
The Santa Ana winds picked up that evening, howling through the canyons like hungry wolves. Marcus watched uneasily as the palm trees thrashed against an orange sky. The news warned of extreme fire danger, but he'd heard it all before. This was LA; drama was in the city's DNA.
At 3 AM, his phone's emergency alert jerked him awake. The hills were ablaze, a savage wall of flames advancing faster than anyone had predicted. Marcus grabbed his go-bag and laptop, hands trembling as he rushed to his Tesla. The access road was already thick with evacuating neighbors.
By dawn, he watched from a safe distance as helicopters dumped water on what remained of his neighborhood. The house – his pride, his investment, his piece of the California dream – was now just another statistic in the largest fire in Los Angeles history.
His realtor's message came through: "The buyers are backing out. I'm so sorry."
Marcus laughed bitterly at the irony. One day's delay had cost him everything. He looked down at his phone, still open to yesterday's weather alert: "Critical fire conditions. Residents advised to prepare for evacuation."
Sometimes, he realized, tomorrow is one day too late.