n the stillness of an early autumn morning, Lebanon County woke to a nightmare that no heart should ever endure. On September 28th, 2025, a fire broke out in a quiet home — flames so fierce they tore through walls, memories, and lives in a matter of minutes. When the smoke cleared, five souls were gone. Among them was four-year-old Veyda Pereyra, a little girl whose laughter had once filled every room she entered.

Veyda was the kind of child who seemed to live in color — full of curiosity, dancing in puddles, and finding wonder in small things. She loved to sing to her toys and pick wildflowers from the yard, proudly handing them to her mom as “presents.” To her family, she was pure sunshine, the light that turned ordinary days into something beautiful.

Her mother, Azelyn Arenas, was an emergency medical technician — trained to face chaos, to stay calm when others couldn’t. She had seen heartbreak before, but nothing could have prepared her for that morning.

When the call came through dispatch about a house fire, Azelyn didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her gear and raced toward the address, sirens wailing, her mind already moving through the checklist she knew by heart — assess, stabilize, save. But as she turned onto the familiar street, something inside her froze. The address was home.

The world blurred. The uniform that once gave her strength suddenly felt unbearably heavy. She ran toward the flames, shouting names that vanished into the crackle and roar of burning wood. Other responders tried to hold her back, but no training can restrain a mother’s instinct. She had one thought — my child is in there.

When they pulled her away, the truth came with unbearable clarity. Among the victims found was her daughter, little Veyda. The child she had cradled, sung to sleep, and kissed goodbye that morning. Gone — in the very fire she had come to fight.

Also lost that day was Josefina Estevez, seventy-three years old, who had been watching over Veyda. Friends said Josefina was the kind of woman who loved deeply, who treated every child as her own. She had been caring for Veyda when the fire broke out, doing what she’d always done — keeping the little girl company, making her feel safe. In her final moments, she stayed by Veyda’s side.

The community of Lebanon County has struggled to find words for a loss that feels beyond language. Firefighters and EMTs wept alongside neighbors as flowers and small stuffed animals appeared near the ashes of the home. “She was one of ours,” one colleague said softly of Azelyn. “And she lost everything in the line of duty.”

In the days that followed, vigils were held — candles glowing in the dark, prayers whispered for peace and strength. There were no answers that could make sense of what had happened, only love left to hold onto. People spoke of Veyda’s laughter, her bright eyes, her tiny hands that always reached for others. They spoke, too, of Azelyn — a mother whose courage did not break even in the face of unthinkable pain.\

And as the smoke cleared and the ashes cooled, something powerful remained — the memory of a bond that not even fire could destroy.

Because love, even when scorched by tragedy, endures. It lives in the stories told around kitchen tables, in the photos held close, in the way a mother still feels her child’s presence in every sunset and every gentle breeze.

Little Veyda’s life, though heartbreakingly short, was filled with love — and that love continues to shine, quietly and eternally, in the heart of the mother who once ran toward the fire to find her.