The blackened trees creaked and moaned. Silhouettes of a forgotten forest against the soft white landscape. Kalada could almost imagine snow had fallen to ease the smoldering pulp and quieten its suffering, but for the powder puffing up in clouds beneath her leather boots.

Ash.

It coated the scene. Beneath angry red embers pulsed, the breath of a fire that had not yet finished feeding. The charred wood left blackened streaks across her velvet coat. She was certain she was going to Hell.

Where else could such a forlorn path lead?

Deep into the dead forest, the path behind disappeared. Shrieks and howls called out, like demons at play. Kalada breathed in the acrid scent of tar and the taste of char, and quickened her step. She’d fought free of a world that no longer belonged to her. There was no way but forward.

The corpse trees ceased at a sheer cliff, rouged a lurid red by the setting sun. There, a crumbling stone bridge arced across a ravine cut by the furious, frothing river below. On the far side, nothing existed but smoke and whispered taunts.

"You've not the courage."

"You're not welcome."

"You'll be forgotten."

Despair crept from the ashen ground into Kalada's bones. She considered this bridge into the unknown, but she’d tread the forest of death, alone. Whatever lay beyond didn't know her. Not yet. But it would.

Kalada squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and traversed the arc of dreams, never to be seen again.

Photo by Jamie Hagan