Cassiel’s work was illegal.
More than illegal—
unspeakable.
The Mourning Authority
called it
corporeal sabotage.
She called it
remembering.
Once,
there were funerals.
Eulogies.
Flowers
left to rot
on graves.
Then—
the Purge of Names.
the Vaulting of the Remains.
They said grief
was a contagion
of the old world.
It held back progress.
It was
dirty.
Now—
no mourning.
no monuments.
no ashes scattered in beauty.
Except
by her.
She scattered
D.S.
over a ridge
where snow still clung
to the heather.
She did not know
who he had been.
Soldier, maybe.
Teacher.
Someone’s father.
It didn’t matter.
Each scattering
was a restoration
of dignity.
Each ritual
a quiet rebellion.
Cassiel disappeared
that day.
Vanished
before they could name her.
But the ashes
had already risen.
They clung to
suits and sensors,
streaked the government’s
white walls,
caught in the antennae
of every tower.
By morning,
the sky
above the capital
had turned grey.
Not from rain.
From
memory.
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