Thirty-Two

*MARLOW*

The storm had burned itself out by dawn.

Ash drifted across the mountain pass like gray snow. The once-immaculate slopes were blackened and broken, veined with faint trails of molten gold still cooling in the cracks of the stone.

Marlow’s breath came in harsh, uneven gasps as he half-carried his wife up the narrow trail. The tram had derailed during the second shockwave, and they’d barely crawled from the wreckage alive.

Now, the only sounds were the crunch of boots on gravel and her shallow, strained breathing.

“Just a little farther,” he said, his voice raw. “There’s a service outpost ahead — we can rest there.”

She didn’t answer. Her head rested against his shoulder, eyes half-open, her face pale under streaks of soot.