The Wistful Silence
The ash falls like a gray snow, thick and suffocating, coating the world in a muted silence that feels less like peace and more like the held breath of a dying animal. You stand in the center of the burnt-out clearing, the air still hot enough to curl the edges of the paper in your pocket, and you hold the seal tight against your chest, its cold brass biting into your skin. It is a heavy thing,...
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