Chapter Five

I begin the breathing.

Not because I believe it—

but because I have nothing else.

The manual rests open beside me, its pages brittle, the ink smudged from ash-stained fingers.

I sit cross-legged on the rug, close my eyes, and draw the dust into me.

Inhale. Deep.

Hold. Seven seconds.

Exhale. Slow. Controlled, as long as possible.

The first time, I cough until I see stars.

The second time, less so.

By the third, the ash clings to my lungs like a friend returning home.

It feels so, so wrong.

And yet—

It feels right.

I repeat the process for hours. Or minutes. Time here is a strange god.

Each breath feeds something inside me. A fire, low and smoldering.

By dusk—if this dull, rust-colored sky can be called that—I am stronger. Not just rested. Not just recovering. Stronger.

My skin continues its strange betrayal. It flakes, sloughs, peels away in translucent curls. Beneath it, something new.

Pale. Smooth. Almost reflective in the light.

I run a finger across my arm. It catches slightly, like skin over stone.

I do not hunger.

It strikes me suddenly.

The bread is untouched. The water, warm in its jug.

My stomach does not ache. My mouth is not dry.

But there is a pull. A need. A whisper.

I step outside. The ash falls softly, like snow in a dead world.

I kneel. Scooping up a handful.

It sifts between my fingers, weightless. Grey. Dead.

And yet—

I bring it to my lips.

Hesitate.

Then—taste.

It is bitter. Dry as bone. But it fills me with warmth.

Not the warmth of soup or sunlight.

The warmth of fire inside the ribs. A coal reigniting, almost painful at first. Almost.

I eat more. Slowly. Reverently.

I chew it like bread.

Swallow it like wine.

I cough, falling over, feeling a dull ache in my chest, unable to continue.

I return inside the cabin, the manual pressed tightly to my chest as a precious treasure.

I sit again on the rug.

And I breathe.

Inhale the ash.

Hold.

Exhale.

Again.

And again.

The wind howls softly outside, but it sounds different now.

Like breath.

Like whispers.

I open my eyes.

They do not sting.

They are made for this.

Or remade?

Something is happening to me.

And I don't think I want it to stop.