Ash

She knelt on the broken black boards of what had been her home, gray ash falling around her like snow of the damned. Bits of wood still glowed, the smell of burnt plastic scalded her nose.

She noticed none of this. She stared down at her hands, which were black and cracked and glowed from embers beneath the skin, but did not feel burnt. She felt no pain. She clenched them into fists, then opened them again, palms up. She blinked her fingers again, and flame sprouted from the cracks, hissing, popping, snapping. It pulled.

This time, she told the flames no, because this time she noticed she could. Tears formed in her eyes, but turned to steam as they slid down her face. She did not look at the man-shaped lump of char before her, only at the flames dancing on her hands.

She brought it inside, pushed it down, and curled her body around it. She shook. Ash continued to fall, and she let the sounds of the fire lull her until calm returned.

In the distance, she heard the whine of a fire truck. She felt surprised it had taken this long, but how long had she laid there? One of the neighbors must’ve called it in. She knew without thinking it was time to go. There would be no explaining this.

Wings unfurled from her back, the sensation as natural as if they had not appeared for the first time that moment, and she could feel the stretch of tissue and fire and ash.

She flexed her knees and leaped into the wind.