Ashlynn pov
They call me Ashlynn Jordan—Ash for short. And sometimes, I wonder if my name always had this edge of sharpness or if I gave it that in the way I've learned to carry it.
I used to wake up every morning with the sunlight filtering through the thin curtains by my bed, casting its soft yellow glow over the mess of notebooks, pens, and loose clothes I'd left scattered. I'd toss an arm over my face, grumble, and let a little laugh escape as I fought off the morning. That was my ritual—a tiny rebellion against the clock. Life felt endless then.
Breakfast was usually whatever I could throw together from the kitchen before dashing off to my part-time classes. Sometimes, I'd sit by the campus library steps, sipping weak coffee, watching people go by. Strangers whose faces were etched into the backdrops of my life but never part of it. Just… there. Comfortingly so.
It was routine. A mundane bliss I didn't know I'd miss. But that was before. Before the mist swallowed the familiar and redefined my every day.
Now, my memories of those mornings feel hazy, like looking through fogged-up glass.
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I don't know when it started. I don't think anyone really does. But by the time the sickness reached our town, it was already too late.
I remember the last normal day. It was a Thursday, just before dawn, when the air felt different. There was a chill, the kind that makes your skin prickle, but this wasn't the regular cold. This chill carried something with it, something strange. I brushed it off, wrapped my scarf tighter, and kept walking to work.
The day was quiet, unnervingly so. Even in town, people shuffled along, heads down, avoiding eye contact. I didn't think much of it until I noticed the first signs. It was subtle—a man by the bus stop, standing still, staring off into space. His skin looked pale, grayish. I figured he was just cold.
But then he coughed, deep and rough, and something about it made me stop in my tracks. As he turned, his eyes were empty, foggy, like he couldn't see anything. I was close enough to see his skin—it was patchy and cracked, like the bark of a dead tree.
A woman beside him started coughing too, then another person across the street. That's when I saw it: the faint, gray mist hanging in the air. I took a step back, covering my mouth. My instincts screamed at me to run, but I couldn't move, couldn't tear my eyes away as the man's skin seemed to harden and shift, turning him into something… different. Something hollow.
It happened fast, too fast. In seconds, his body stiffened, and his head tilted back as if he'd suddenly become a statue. And just as quickly, he snapped forward, hunched over, eyes glinting in a shade of unnatural gray. He wasn't human anymore—not fully. He had become something else, something that looked through me as if I were next.
That was when I turned and ran.
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By the time I got home, my heart was pounding so hard I could barely breathe. I locked every door, covered every window, and sat in silence, listening. But outside, there was nothing. The only sound was my own shallow breathing, and I wondered if that would be my last memory before turning gray, too.
The next morning, everything had changed. The streets were empty. The news was only static. All that was left were warnings on every channel, flashing red alerts:
"STAY INDOORS. DO NOT GO OUTSIDE. THE AIR IS CONTAMINATED."
I barely slept that night, watching the mist settle outside my window, creeping like a silent storm through the streets. I tried calling friends, family, anyone—but the calls didn't go through. It was like the world outside my four walls had vanished, leaving me alone in this quiet, breathless world.
And then I heard it: a scraping sound, faint at first, growing louder. I crept to the window, peering out from behind the curtain, and saw one of them—a neighbor, I think, though I couldn't recognize him anymore. His skin was gray and cracked, his limbs stiff as he moved, dragging his feet along the ground. He wasn't walking. It was more like he was being pulled.
The sight chilled me to the core. He stopped in front of my house, his foggy eyes staring blankly ahead. And then he let out a low, rattling breath, like he was breathing his last. But he didn't die. He just kept breathing, staring, as if waiting.
The disease had taken him, transformed him into something that only resembled the person he once was. And now, he was waiting for someone else to join him.
I stepped back from the window, heart hammering, praying he wouldn't come any closer. But he stayed there, just outside, staring through the glass like he could see me. And when his mouth opened, I saw a faint wisp of that same gray mist drift from his lips.
I knew then that I couldn't stay here forever. But every time I thought about leaving, I imagined the gray mist slipping into my lungs, turning me into one of them. I didn't want to know what it felt like, to lose myself like that, to become something cold and empty.
---
Days passed, or maybe just hours—it was hard to tell anymore. All I knew was that the streets were filled with them now, those gray figures wandering aimlessly, drifting past windows and doors. They were hunting, searching, though I don't know if they even remembered what they were searching for.
I could feel myself growing weaker, the air in my small room turning stale. My food was running low, and the silence was starting to drive me mad. I knew I had to make a choice—stay here, waiting to starve, or go out and take my chances in the gray mist.
So here I am, standing at the door, hand on the knob, taking one last breath of clean air.
And as I pull open the door, the first gust of gray mist swirls around me, carrying that strange, deathly chill that's spread across the world. I hold my breath, and I run.
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