Rising from the ashes, I cough painfully.
My lungs rattle as I expel a plume of grey dust.
I shudder, weak and exhausted, beaten down by the scarlet sun, as I struggle to stand. My knees and feet sink into the ash, toppling me mercilessly back into the powdery mire.
Slithering on my belly like a pitiful snake—or wriggling worm—I find I can stay afloat in this ashen hell. I compact the dust beneath me as I move, inching toward a hazy structure in the distance.
I wheeze with exertion, my body of skin and bones trembling. I collapse, my meager strength failing as the powdered pain fills my lungs. My throat, rough as sandpaper, closes in on itself as I writhe in agony.
My whole body aches and screams, begging for respite. But I press on, scraping and clawing across the chalky terrain, drawing ever nearer to my prize. The ash thickens here—dense enough to hold my weight, yet spongy, making balance a cruel joke.
I manage to stand. My knees protest. I shamble forward, toward the door of the forgotten shack.
My hand rests on the wood—weathered smooth by wind and ash. Sparse dots of dark stain linger on its pale surface. I press against it.
It refuses.
A low creak taunts me.
I grit my teeth and hurl my insubstantial weight against the door.
With a shriek of laughter, it gives way—flinging me inside, onto the floor beyond the threshold.
I lie still, sprawled on my back atop a faded rug.
Above me, the ceiling: a simple, sloped stretch of aged wood.
My eyelids betray me.
Darkness falls.