The sea of ashes has pervaded my dreams for the the third time this week. The dream always took place near dawn. I was on a floating platform, standing on a pile of ashes. When I tried to scoop water from the the scarlet sea, a pair of badly burned hands dragged me down. I always woke up with that feeling that I was already consumed by fire. I thought that this was my subconscious telling me to get home quickly, especially now that my Mother had just died.
Home was a small island called Andunay. The last time I was there, trouble was already brewing in paradise. My Father, a prominent man among his peers, wanted to introduce modern tools and gadgets to the Andunayan people. He believed that it was time to abolish traditional ways of living, and even sent me off the island to study in a progressive school.
Gossamer strings converge