The skin behind Kanan's eyes burned again that morning.
A slow, pulsing fire that never truly rested. It had become part of him, this ache — a second heartbeat that throbbed behind dimmed vision.
He blinked toward the cracked ceiling. It didn't matter. There was nothing to see.
Only the charcoal sky outside the hut, stained by the ever-churning ash winds. No colour. No trees. No movement. Just wind… and grey.
Ash Rot.
That's what the old man had whispered one evening by the embers.
"It begins with the eyes… then the breath. Then you stop feeling the ground beneath your feet."
It wasn't a sickness in the usual sense. It was something worse. A decay of life itself — born from starvation, dehydration, and something else no one wanted to name.
No one really spoke about it. But Kanan saw it. In their mother. In the elder. In the silence of the village.
And in himself.
But Nilo?
Nilo was the one flame that hadn't gone out.
"Wake up!" the boy's voice cut through the dust-thick air like sun through cloud. "Kanan, we're missing the sunrise. It's almost pink today — I swear!"
Kanan didn't reply, but he shifted under the ragged blanket. Nilo was already on his feet, barefoot, arms outstretched like he was greeting an invisible audience.
"Presenting: Nilo the Great! Last survivor of the Ashy Village, champion of bug-catching, king of ash-ball fights, and — wait for it — proud brother of a mysterious blind wanderer with a tragic past and killer eyebrows!"
He flexed dramatically.
Kanan sighed.
"You're loud."
"And you're old," Nilo grinned. "Now move."
They ate in silence.
Two roasted locusts and a shard of dried bark. It was all they had that day.
Kanan chewed slowly.
Nilo devoured his in seconds, then reached for the spoon and clinked it against their mother's empty pot like it was a feast.
Their mother didn't speak. She sat in the corner again, muttering softly to the wall. Something about mangoes. About curry leaves.
Kanan heard the sound of her nail scratching at the floor.
Nilo ignored it. Or pretended to. He always did.
Later, outside the hut, Nilo was already halfway up the broken ridge wall before Kanan could even pull his sandals on.
"Come on, slowpoke!" he yelled, balancing on the edge with his arms wide. "From up here, the world almost looks normal."
"Normal how?"
"Like something worth walking toward," he said, then paused. "Well… maybe not walk. Crawl. Or ride. Or fly."
Kanan smiled. "You'll never fly."
"Watch me."
Then he jumped — not from a great height, but enough for Kanan's breath to catch.
Nilo landed on both feet, stumbled, then stood tall and laughed, wind swirling the ash around him in spirals.
That night, the wind returned stronger than usual.
It rattled the hut. Their mother was humming again. The same lullaby that had no melody, no ending. She rocked back and forth, spoon in hand, staring at the empty firepit.
Nilo lay beside Kanan, still grinning from the day's adventures.
"I caught a two-legged beetle today."
Kanan didn't respond.
"It was running in circles. I think it was dizzy."
Still silence.
"You ever wonder why bugs don't get Ash Rot?"
Kanan turned. "Nilo… you've been coughing."
"Only a little," he said quickly. "Just from laughing too much. I'm fine. I'm just—"
He paused. For a moment, his smile flickered. Then it was back, bright as ever.
"—too fast for illness."
He poked Kanan in the ribs.
"You'll see. One day I'll run across this whole land. Ash or no ash."
But Kanan didn't laugh.
He looked at his brother and saw things Nilo wouldn't admit — dark smudges under his eyes, a sharpness to his cheekbones, the way he shivered sometimes when he thought no one was watching.
He knew the signs.
He knew them too well.
That night, Kanan didn't sleep.
He listened instead.
To the wind. To the breathing. To the quiet cracking of ash against their windowpane.
And he made a silent vow.
Nilo would not rot.
Not like him.
Not like the rest.
[To Be Continued...]