Chapter 1 - The Ash-Colored Morning
The morning after the storm, the city of Oakhaven didn’t look like a city anymore; it looked like a graveyard of wet wood, twisted metal, and shattered glass. Leo sat on the curb of what used to be 4th Avenue, his feet stained charcoal-black, his lungs burning with every jagged breath.
He was ten, but his eyes were ancient. He watched the cleanup crews—men in neon vests picking through the debris of lives that had been lived just twenty-four hours ago. He was waiting for a face, a hand on his shoulder, the smell of his father’s tobacco or his mother’s vanilla perfume. But the rescue sirens had died down, replaced by the low, guttural rumble of bulldozers.
A woman in a rain-slicker stopped in front of him. She carried a clipboard and a look of practiced, hollow sympathy. "Son? You have a name?"
Leo looked at her, his voice a dry, rasping whisper. "Leo."
"Leo. Where are your parents?"
He pointed toward the smoldering pile of timber two blocks away. The woman followed his finger, her face softening into a look of absolute, soul-crushing pity. She didn't have to go look. She knew. That block was ash.
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"Come on, Leo," she said, reaching for his hand.
Leo recoiled. He didn't want a social worker. He didn't want a foster home. He wanted the couch that was too small for him. He wanted the noise of his house. He ran. He sprinted through the ruins, dodging the heavy machinery, his bare feet calloused by the debris. He wasn't running toward a future; he was running away from the reality that his past had been erased in a single, roaring night.
