The Wistful Ashes

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 08:43:29 -

The Wistful Ashes

The air in the white room tasted of ozone and burnt sugar. It was a sterile, high-altitude flavor, the kind that sits on the tongue after a lightning strike in a field of dead grass. I sat on the edge of the bed, my legs dangling, and watched the dust motes dance in the beam of artificial light that never dimmed. It was always noon here. It was always quiet. My name is Elias. I remember it...

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