The Wistful Ashes
The fire started in the attic, and you knew it before the smoke did. You knew it because the air changed, tasting suddenly of copper and old paper, a flavor that coated the back of your throat and refused to leave. You were twelve years old, small for your age, with hands that always seemed too large for your sleeves. You were sitting on the cold floorboards of the attic, watching the dust...
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