The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-19 11:48:40 -

The Wistful Ashes

The road is wet. It is always wet here. The mud clings to my boots like old blood. I look up. The sky is low. It presses down on us. We are walking. I do not know where to. I have no map. I have no name. I only have the box. It is small. It is oak. It is heavy. It holds the ashes. "Is it done?" I ask. The man beside me does not answer. He is tall. He wears a coat of grey wool. It is torn at the...

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