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I Traced the Ashes With Ink
I step through the broken gateway and into a world I scarcely recognize. The air tastes of ash and old sorrow, heavy with the acrid perfume of burned wood and charred earth. My boots crunch across a carpet of grey debris—splintered beams, collapsed shingles, and the twisted husks of once-proud trees. Each footprint kicks up a puff of soot that clings to my ankles like a stubborn stain. All around me, the bones of my hometown lie exposed, skeletons of memory stripped bare.
The sky overhead is the color of tarnished pewter, swollen with cloud and smoke from fires long since extinguished. A dull wind stirs, carrying with it the occasional ember, flickering weakly before vanishing. It feels as though time itself halted the day the flames swept through, trapping this place in a permanent half-light. My heart pounds—not from exertion but from something the relentless thrum of grief that pulses in my chest whenever I confront this ruin.
I pause beside what used to be Maple Street’s corner house, the one where Mrs. Grantham baked her famous gingerbread. Now all that remains is a charred foundation and the warped iron frame of a pantry door. I press my fingertips against the brittle concrete, searching for warmth that isn’t there. Instead, my skin meets cold ash, and the grains slip away at my touch. I close my eyes and inhale, letting the scent of burned sugar and vanished laughter flood my memory.
A sudden crack—thin and mournful—pulls me back to the present. I look up to see an overhead beam surrendering to gravity, collapsing in slow motion. The sound is muffled by distance, yet it registers in my bones. When I open my eyes again, a curtain of fine dust drifts through the air, settling like a grim snowfall. For a moment, I’m certain I can hear ghosts murmuring from beneath the distant echoes of children’s laughter, the soft hum of an ice cream truck, the gentle hiss of rain against the eaves. But then the wind shifts, and the voices retreat.
I take a careful step forward, navigating a narrow path between two heaps of debris. Each mound tells its own the curved remains of a bicycle wheel, a half-melted garden gnome, a rusted swing set dangling by a single chain. I think of my own childhood here—how I used to pedal furiously down these streets until dusk, racing my best friend Clara to the old oak tree at the end of the block. We’d laugh until our sides ached, scrawling our names in the rough bark. I wonder if that tree still stands or if it too was reduced to embers.
As I continue, I notice charred fragments of what might have been a fence, jagged and blackened like the ribs of some great beast. Beyond it, a decrepit mailbox, its red paint peeled away, stands like a sentinel over this wasteland. I approach and peer inside. A single envelope remains, its edges singed and curled. I fish it out and brush off the soot. The address is smudged, but I can just make out my own name in faded cursive. My breath hitches. This letter was meant for me—but when? Why did it never arrive? The weight of unanswered questions settles on my shoulders, as oppressive as the heat that once consumed this place.
The sky overhead is the color of tarnished pewter, swollen with cloud and smoke from fires long since extinguished. A dull wind stirs, carrying with it the occasional ember, flickering weakly before vanishing. It feels as though time itself halted the day the flames swept through, trapping this place in a permanent half-light. My heart pounds—not from exertion but from something the relentless thrum of grief that pulses in my chest whenever I confront this ruin.
I pause beside what used to be Maple Street’s corner house, the one where Mrs. Grantham baked her famous gingerbread. Now all that remains is a charred foundation and the warped iron frame of a pantry door. I press my fingertips against the brittle concrete, searching for warmth that isn’t there. Instead, my skin meets cold ash, and the grains slip away at my touch. I close my eyes and inhale, letting the scent of burned sugar and vanished laughter flood my memory.
A sudden crack—thin and mournful—pulls me back to the present. I look up to see an overhead beam surrendering to gravity, collapsing in slow motion. The sound is muffled by distance, yet it registers in my bones. When I open my eyes again, a curtain of fine dust drifts through the air, settling like a grim snowfall. For a moment, I’m certain I can hear ghosts murmuring from beneath the distant echoes of children’s laughter, the soft hum of an ice cream truck, the gentle hiss of rain against the eaves. But then the wind shifts, and the voices retreat.
I take a careful step forward, navigating a narrow path between two heaps of debris. Each mound tells its own the curved remains of a bicycle wheel, a half-melted garden gnome, a rusted swing set dangling by a single chain. I think of my own childhood here—how I used to pedal furiously down these streets until dusk, racing my best friend Clara to the old oak tree at the end of the block. We’d laugh until our sides ached, scrawling our names in the rough bark. I wonder if that tree still stands or if it too was reduced to embers.
As I continue, I notice charred fragments of what might have been a fence, jagged and blackened like the ribs of some great beast. Beyond it, a decrepit mailbox, its red paint peeled away, stands like a sentinel over this wasteland. I approach and peer inside. A single envelope remains, its edges singed and curled. I fish it out and brush off the soot. The address is smudged, but I can just make out my own name in faded cursive. My breath hitches. This letter was meant for me—but when? Why did it never arrive? The weight of unanswered questions settles on my shoulders, as oppressive as the heat that once consumed this place.
40 pages, Kindle Edition
Published July 3, 2025
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