Sand, dust; swirling and swirling like a dance, like a flame beginning to get too close. Blacks and greys, was it even fair to call it sand? Or was it more appropriate to call it ash?
Ashes were said to remain after destruction after all… "Sister," a young girl was about to cry, in the corner of a building, tucked away like scared little rats.
The building shook and rumbled, the aftermath of a rhythm that was already played. The walls cracked, various furniture and items across the abode, broken; much of it looted.
Out the windows of the brick building, even out the broken down door, sunlight didn't peer though it was day. A loud distant cough every other second.
"It'll be okay, it's okay," an older girl—a sibling—had her arms wrapped around her younger sister. Around eight years old, protecting a girl no older than five.
Long dark hair barely kept and parted down the middle. Deep brown eyes, face in ash and soot. The same hued eyes as the sister she embraced.
