The Wasteland

The world as it was, will never be again. Before all of this happened, I had a vivid dream of a wasteland. I walked into the bombed out rubble of a city and stopped at a plaza ringed by the melted steel and shattered glass skeletons of office buildings. I stood there and watched as a young boy crawled out of the rubble and walked slowly over to a pile of debris. He stirred his hand in the ashes, as if he were looking for something. He continued and then stopped suddenly, then reached in deeper. His hand withdrew and I saw there he clutched it: the last dying ember. He breathed on it and it began to glow brighter with each breath. Then he walked away, up out of the city, into cool pine woods.

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