Shadows and Smoke

Either the sun is broken, or someone has stolen it. The feeling of comfort, of warmth, is rare these days. I find myself longing for the shades of summer, where shadows of people and things made the world more real. Now, mists have taken over— the views from my windows, a magical backdrop for dreamy photos. I took a walk in the misty rain, its tender touch washing away the paths, erasing old impressions. Misty drops clung to bare branches, sparkling like crystals from a realm of quiet magic. In the silence, I heard the sound of mists battling the light breeze, a pleasing symphony, until the silence shattered by a passing plane. My mind snapped back to harsh reality, to the memory of a landing plane where many souls were taken away. I imagine their relief— the hope of reaching, of arrival— stolen in cruel waves of burning fire. All their stories, their hopes, their dreams— vanished in the smoke, a fading echo in the sky. My heart sobs, but still throbs with the pain I imagine— the ache in the souls of those left behind, their love still burning, their grief a shadow that feels more real than the sun.