The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-20 10:16:31 -

The Wistful Ashes

You hold the rifle. It is cold. Steel and wood. Your hands shake. Not from fear. From the weight. The air here is thick. It tastes of ozone. And old ash. "Move," I say. My voice is flat. A command. I am a captain. Or I was. The rank is a ghost. A paper scrap. Burned in the fire. We walk. Three of us. Me. And Elias. And the girl. Her name is Clara. She does not speak. She only watches. Her eyes...

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