I've folded all the money already, thrown all of it into the pot. I sit a safe distance from the fire, but not so far that I couldn't feel the heat. All I can think is forgive me as I stare at the blazing embers, glowing red as the flames sink below the ashes.
I can still see her in my mind. I can see her hair, dark and smooth like the velvet night, and the way her left cheek showed a slight dimple when she laughed. Her small hands, tipped with perfect crescent moon nails. But everything else is blurred like an unfocused photo - I only have small snippets of her left.
The burnt paper curls and flutters in the morning wind, and a huge amount of it blows into the ashen sky, and I think that surely, the tradition is right about how the money goes to the heavens, because I watch the flecks float away and never drop back down again.
YOU ARE READING
combustion
Short StoryWhen paper burns, it doesn't just turn to ashes. This is the story of Lily and Keaton. Of the boy who was hopelessly lost, and of the girl who was his oasis in a sea of strangers. Most of all, of how he found himself turning paper to ashes.
