S Wilkinson

Burning Petrichor

Silence reigned, broken only by the sharp pants of exhaustion ringing within the empty space. The moon shone down through the gaps in the ceiling soaring overhead, pathetic shelter from the soon-to-be downpour, acrid on the wind but for now invisible in the sky above. The woman’s breath hitched once, twice, and then fell silent. Her reaching hand flexed towards the child and dropped, landing amongst the grit and dirt of the decaying building.