Ash was lighter than ordinary dust. It had a habit of clinging, and when you brushed it off it immediately settled again. I quietly swept my way back to the other end of the veranda. A smoldering leaf drifted down in front of me and landed on the wooden balustrade. It had retained its curved shape, but between the black veins was nothing but white, burned-out cells. I propped the broom against the wall, carefully picked up the leaf, and carried it to the child, cupping it in my hands to protect it from the wind.
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