Chapter 2: Ashes Remember
1017 Words
Dawn arrived with a faint glow that had forgotten how to hold warmth. The downpour had ceased, yet the metropolis's pathways shimmered with a slick coating of grease and grime.
Alina lingered by the window, the picture still resting on her table, the candle now a stub of hardened wax. Rest had eluded her. Every time she shut her eyes, she envisioned that silhouette outside the glass, tall, silent, too vivid to be a fantasy.
In the mirror above her sink, her reflection appeared spectral, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. She splashed icy water on her face and massaged her cheeks until a sting reminded her she was still present.
On the Way to the Bureau
En route to the Bureau, the streets of Velmor operated like a precisely wound machine fueled by desperation. Vendors called out, the same two dogs argued over the same scrap of bread, and at the checkpoint, a Circle sentinel motioned her onward after a glance at her Bureau identification.
The world was gradually learning to pretend that order had returned.
The Bureau
Tomas was already seated at his desk, sleeves rolled up, cigarette smoke drifting toward the cracked ceiling.
“You look terrible,” he said without lifting his gaze.
“I met it last night,” she replied.
He grinned faintly.
“I will mark it down on your attendance record.”
Alina placed the photograph on his desk.
“Have you ever seen him?”
Tomas examined it, exhaling smoke.
“Not in person. But I recognize the uniform. Dominion’s Fifth Regiment. Most of those soldiers vanished or became mercenaries. Some joined the Circle. Depends on how much they were hurting or broken.”
The mention of the Circle tightened her stomach.
“Are you certain?”
“As certain as I can be without risking a bullet for asking questions.”
He slid the photo back.
“If this man is alive, he is not someone you want to chase.”
“I already found him once,” she said quietly, then walked away.
The Breakdown
That afternoon, an electric surge swept through the neighborhood. Lights flickered and dimmed, machinery fell silent. The Agency melted into the background noise of shifting chairs and muffled curses. Candles again. The familiar rhythm.
A woman stepped inside clutching a worn ration ID. Her gaze was too calm for her story.
“They told me my husband was in the northern sector when the airstrip exploded,” she whispered. “They never gave me his name again. Just his boots.”
The word airstrip slammed into Alina like a blow. The place where everything had begun to unravel.
Her pencil slipped.
The candle flickered.
The woman’s face blurred.
The room tipped.
Sirens.
Dust.
Heat rising in her throat.
Flashback: The Bombing
It had started with the sky turning red at noon. Not the sunset red, but a violent hue, metallic, chemical, wrong. The air vibrated. The radio cut to static. Somewhere nearby, a child screamed.
Alina had been in the city square, clutching her portfolio to her chest. The ground rippled as if the world itself took a deep breath before breaking. Then came the roar, the kind that ripped the words from people’s mouths. A wall of wind, glass raining like knives, and the weight of silence after the first detonation.
She ran without direction. Smoke devoured the streets. People moved like shadows within it, calling names, praying, choking. She turned into an alley, and the building beside her folded like paper. The blast threw her to the ground. The world went white.
When she woke, there was only darkness, dust, and the sharp taste of iron in her mouth. Her legs were pinned beneath rubble. Somewhere above, fire crackled. Somewhere far away, someone was calling for survivors. She tried to answer, but her throat would not produce a sound. Her fingers found a gap in the debris and clawed at it until her nails broke. The pain kept her conscious.
Footsteps approached. A beam of light cut through the dust.
“Don’t move,” a voice said.
A man’s silhouette appeared, outlined by the glow of a burning wall. He crouched, hands working quickly, calmly, and with practiced efficiency. She saw his eyes first, gray and steady, and the streak of blood across his temple.
“I’m going to lift this when I count to three,” he said. “One… two…”
He did not wait for three. The slab shifted, pain tore through her leg, and air rushed back into her lungs. She screamed.
“Breathe,” he commanded, pulling her free. “You’re still alive.”
She looked at him through the dust, unable to speak. He wrapped his scarf around her bleeding knee, his movements efficient but gentle.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Alina.”
“Good. I’m Daren.” He looked over his shoulder at the burning street. “We need to move before the next wave.”
He half carried and half dragged her toward a collapsed storefront. The heat followed them, and the ground trembled with distant detonations.
When they reached the cellar, he lowered her onto a stack of sandbags. For a moment, neither spoke. They simply listened to the world ending above them.
Then Daren reached into his pack, pulled out a canteen, and held it to her lips. The water tasted like smoke and metal, but it was the kindest thing she had ever swallowed. Outside, the thunder of artillery rolled closer.
Return to Present
The pencil fell from Alina’s hand and clattered onto the desk. She blinked. The office was back, the candles, the quiet chatter, the sound of Tomas arguing with the generator. Her pulse still thudded in her ears.
Her sketch was ruined, lines smeared by tears she hadn’t realized were there. She stood, muttered something about air, and stepped outside. The afternoon had turned gray, the light flat and bruised.
Across the street, a figure lingered again beneath the lamppost, the same stance, the same silence. When she looked closer, he was gone.
- Writer
