The Damned Holies (The Fallen Wars 1)

The air in Ann Arbor, Michigan, hung heavy with the ghosts of a nuclear blast, eighteen years past. Every step crunched over blackened debris and shattered glass, a grim symphony of humanity's folly. I pulled my worn backpack higher on my shoulders, the weight a familiar comfort against the chill of a coming storm.

The sky was a bruised canvas overhead, growing lighter with each passing minute, yet promising thunder. I needed shelter. Ahead, a house stood, mostly intact, a gaping hole in its side serving as an unwelcome invitation. Inside, the scent of mold and decay was overwhelming, but I pushed past it, rummaging through forgotten cabinets, seeking nothing in particular. My reflection startled me in a cracked mirror, a fleeting glimpse of dark clothes and even darker eyes, a stark reminder of my solitude.

I found a hole in the floor and dropped into the basement, brushing off decaying carpet fibers. A small fire crackled to life, chasing away the pervasive cold. Curled up, using my bag as a pillow, I rubbed a fresh cut on my arm, wincing at the shoddy self-stitch. It wasn't healing well, a testament to my constant movement. The silence was profound, broken only by the incessant drip, drip, drip of water from above. I was a dandelion seed, adrift, but free. Tomorrow, perhaps, I'd see my grandmother in Chicago. The thought was a rare comfort before sleep claimed me.