A cloak of darkness covered the shining lights of the night sky, slowly covering everything along with the pale crescent. The air was fresh, blowing through the blossoming trees with ease pelting their flowers into the inky cloak of death. With their flight came whooshes and whispers that occasionally, along with the barking of distant dogs disrupted the deathly silence. The alleys and pathways were groomed ready for happiness to spill down them brightening up the environment for all. The buildings were clean and pearly white under occasional streaks of light, towering like walls around a medieval castle. Even in the dark, the Ferris wheel stood tall like a soldier waiting to be commanded, and seated on one of the bright yellow cabins was a black vulture staring into the distance.

It was warm, and pleasant for the time of year, but the further you ventured out the less organized it became, with grass growing knee-height, and trees scraping the sky. In the midst of the expansive wildlife was a place that stood out. Statues of angels stood towering in the translucent lights, staring into the night sky, praying. The shadow of the chapel blocked the light, creating darkness and despair. Wrought iron fences towered over the headstones, made of pale granite, decorated with memorial photos, and bright bursts of colour from decaying flowers. Some were displaying their age, covered in moss, overgrown with grass and weeds, exhibiting neglect and misfortune. A breeze fluttered past me, leaving an unsettling taste in my mouth; the air tasted like metal, the kind we licked during the wintertime when we were younger:

unexplainable and peculiar. It presented itself once more, stupefying me. Then, I noticed I was not the only one who was perplexed. A deer was standing a mere arm’s length away, beyond the tree line. It was young and fawn-like, with eyes full of fear. It glanced at me as if wishing to say something. Its terrified eyes flickered, and as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished into the darkness. Walking through the tall grass became progressively more challenging. The ground was dry and covered with twigs and pine needles, which at times jammed into my feet, making me question whether it was really worth seeing it now, or should I have waited till morning? As I reached the top of the hill, there were groups of people standing. Some were dressed; others were still in their nightgowns. It was mostly young families with their children. Among them was the occasional elderly person. In spite of the challenging terrain, some had brought their children in strollers, and surprisingly, they were still sleeping soundly. Most stood on the bridge and stared into the light. It was intensely bright, as if the sun had risen in the middle of the night, outshining anything in its path. Glowing yellow flames turned into orange waves that washed over the landscape. It was a fire, ravaging the building like a lion devouring its prey. From it came a beam ascending to the very heavens; it was a hazy light blue, reminiscent of kyanite. The beam moved in mesmerizing patterns like the Aurora Borealis in our astronomy textbooks. All of us wished to travel to see them, but as with many things, it was out of reach. Everyone was perplexed. People were discussing what could possibly be causing the lights. A young man, dressed in construction clothes, seemed astonished and said, “it does not run on coal or oil, but on something that produces clean energy.”

From the crowd, a woman replied, “Then what is burning?”

An elderly man dressed in a formal suit declared, “From what I heard the roof is burning.” From here, however, it looked like a lot more was burning, not only the roof, but also the inside of the building. I could have been mistaken, but it looked like a piece of the building was ripped off like the skin of a tangerine, messy and disorganized. A gentle hush cloaked the crowd as the sky seemed to fall to the ground, fluttering gracefully and elegantly toward the harsh land below. With little regard for what was around, it covered everything.

The silence was broken by a child who had an expression of happiness and eagerness. At the top of his lungs, he shrieked “It’s snowing!” The children all began screaming with joy, jumping and running like baboons. Most were running. Others were swimming, and some were showering in the flakes. The parents stared skeptically; some were showing concern and fear on their faces with expressions of disbelief.

It landed gracefully in my hand. It was as if evil had taken over the world, I knew something was wrong. It was not snow. It was a gray and silky cloak of death. Lighter than snow, it effortlessly floated into the darkness, and then, I realized it was not snow, but ashes. I was baffled. Where did the ashes come from? At first, I thought it was impossible that they came from the fire, but there was no other option; nothing else was burning.

The realization began hitting people. The concern was visibly spreading. A few parents began picking up their children and dusting them off quickly and anxiously, as though the ashes were a newly noticed stain on a pair of pants. The remaining were running, jumping and taking in this once-in-a-lifetime experience; some had even begun building mounds, and others showered one another. As if it were summertime, they were spraying and having fun with one another. Everyone loved the summer holidays, the three consecutive months of freedom and relaxation. But the happiness did not last. Those who were not stopped by their parents were displaying agony. Their expressions morphed from joy to horror. Their hands, once pale white from the long winter and isolation, were turning the bright red of a cooked lobster. The horror manifested itself into hollers and screeches. The shock on people's faces was striking. The beginning of the end was imminent, and only when death was sitting at my bedside, did I realize what had occurred that fateful night. Misguided trust led to a gentle long humming sound of pain that seemed to never end.