The Distant Whispers
The ash did not fall like snow, which would have been a mercy, but like rusted filings, a fine, gritty powder that coated the tongue with the taste of old pennies and burnt ozone. I stood on the ridge of the Appalachian foothills, my boots sinking into the earth that had been scorched black by the drone strikes three days prior, watching the forest below breathe its final, sulfurous...
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