I run my fingers through the ash, watching as the fine gray dust trickles through and forms wisps of clouds above the blackened ruins.
Ruins. Is that really the right word? Ashes and ruins are words that describe the end. Everything comes crashing down, they say. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The sunlight catches the wisps of ash, glowing the papery flakes and dust to a golden hue. A gentle breeze blows into the remains, stirring my hair and causing the finest flecks of ash to dance along the ground. In many people’s minds, these crumbled ruins mean death. But to me, they are hope.
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