Smoke and Ash
A strange, silvery mist has lain across the land this morning—a ghostly shroud still carrying the scent of smoke and celebration. The world feels hushed, as though the earth itself draws a long, slow breath after the chaos of last night’s revelry.
Bonfire Night has passed once more—a night of flickering fires and sparks rising into the sky with wild bursts of colour. And yet, beneath the noise and brilliance, there is always a quiet sorrow. Poor Carys spent the evening curled tightly in her bed, trembling through each burst of sound, her dark eyes wide with fear. The thunder of fireworks may delight humankind, but it terrifies the creatures who share our world. This, I think, is the single part of autumn that I wish I could erase—this cruel contrast between beauty and distress.