The Wistful Ashes

added blog Literature

2026-08-19 08:56:34 -

The Wistful Ashes

"You are late." I did not look up. My hands were in the flour. The white dust coated my palms, my wrists, the creases of my fingers. It smelled of dry earth and stale time. "Forgive me, Mother," I said. My voice was small. It hid in the back of my throat. Margaret stood by the door. Her cloak was heavy with snow. The air in the kitchen was cold. The fire had died to embers. We were in the...

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