The Wistful Ashes

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2026-08-22 21:13:28 -

The Wistful Ashes

The fog in Oakhaven did not smell of rain or sea; it smelled of wet ash and old pennies. It rolled off the river at dawn, thick as wool, and by mid-morning it had swallowed the church steeple and the bakery’s sign. Elias Vane pulled the collar of his father’s coat tighter, the heavy wool scratching his neck, a familiar friction that grounded him in the damp cold. He was thirty-two, a junior...

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