= Mikael =
The village square felt wrong without smoke.
For days, ash had clung to the air like a second sky—thick, suffocating, dimming the sun until even noon felt like dusk. It had settled into hair, into fabric, into lungs. It had painted everything in a dull, merciless gray. Grief had been visible then. Tangible. You could taste it on your tongue.
Now the fires were gone.
The wind had come through in the night and carried the last of the smoke with it, sweeping the sky clean as if trying to pretend none of it had happened. What remained was silence.
Not the calm kind. Not the gentle quiet of early morning before market bells.
This was the kind of quiet that felt like it was holding its breath.
Fragile. Brittle. As though one careless sound—a shout, a crash, a single scream—coul
