Cloak of Ashes

It wasn't always like this, always running with nowhere to hide, always fearing your own shadow.
Someone once said that the world was happy.
That people were happy.
But of course, that happiness had to dissipate like smoke on a cold gray morning.
Everyone ran.
And you had to run, too, or be trampled by the crazed, rampaging herd.
So everyone ran.
Except one person.
He stayed back, breathing the billowing toxic fumes.
He coughed, face grimy and scarred, limping slightly.
He couldn't run.
He had watched as the mob receded into the gray ashes of the distance.
He yearned to run after them.
But his leg decreed he couldn't.
So he stayed.
And he watched.