The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-18 01:07:32 -

The Wistful Ashes

The fog rolled in thick. It tasted of iron and wet wool. I wiped my hands on my apron. The cloth was gray. My hands were gray. I held the brush steady. The paint was black. Not just black. A black that swallowed the light. I painted the name on the crate. *Holloway & Sons.* Then I crossed it out. I painted the new name. *Holloway.* No sons. Just me. And the thing I made. I lived in the old...

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