What Lingers After

Clara’s ears rang.

Not the sharp kind of ringing from gunfire — this was dull, heavy, like the forest itself had slammed a door shut inside her head. She blinked against the darkness, breath coming out in uneven bursts. The air smelled wrong. Burnt, almost. Like wet stone and old blood.

Her hands were shaking.

She didn’t remember falling, but she was on the ground now, palm pressed into cold dirt, fingers digging in as if the earth were the only solid thing left.

“Ash,” she croaked.

Her throat hurt. Everything hurt.

“Ash!”

“I’m here.”

The answer came fast — too fast — and then his hands were on her, solid and warm, gripping her shoulders. He turned her slightly, checking her face, her neck, her arms like he expected to find something broken.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

She glanced down. A thin cut traced her forearm, already clotted. Not hers — or at least, not entirely.

“It’s not bad,” she said. “What about you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

That scared her more than the creature had