The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-20 05:41:12 -

The Wistful Ashes

The fog rolled in thick as wool. It tasted of coal and iron. We were at the Feast of the New Furnace. The Mayor stood on the crate. He shouted. His voice was wet. He spoke of purity. He spoke of the clean breath of the town. The crowd cheered. I did not cheer. I held my cup of black tea. The steam rose. It curled like a snake. I watched the Mayor. He looked strong. He looked like a stone. But...

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