Chapter 15: Wasteland

Our full bellies were a stark contrast to what had remained from the Forest of Forget-Me-Nots after the storm.

The trees, once so strong, lay on the ground. Some were still smoking. Corpses littered the ground.

Some must have died from the fire, some from the smoke. Others from the hailstorm, the traces of which were yet to melt.

It was cold. The air smelled of death and smoke.

The only unharmed patch of land was my old girl.

"Good God," Almira was gripping her amulet. Most of the villagers were mirroring her.

Anne came to me, her steps featherlight. Her eyes big and bright.

"Uncle Sylvan, we have to clean!" The girl said, with the innocence of someone who knew someone was in pain but was yet to grow enough empathy to truly know what to do.

"Anne," I said, as I took a step towards her. Only to step into the corpse of a squirrel.

I did my best not to throw up.