My Ashley. My darling, sweet Ashley. He'd call her that sometimes in that soft, honest way he had. I love you. He'd said that too.

The smoke hung in the sky like death. It was black and malevolent and as choking as acid. Someone must be burning old tires, she thought. But she couldn't see a fire, or even tell where the smoke was coming from. She wanted to stomp around and slam doors. She wanted to make a curt complaint to the management, but she didn't know who to complain to.

She wished again to be back amongst the myriad lights of the city. This sort of thing wouldn't happen there, somebody would stop it. And in the city she wouldn't ever be really alone. But sometimes concessions had to be made.

She strode angrily back towards the mean little shack she graciously called home. She slammed the door for emphasis when she entered. Even if no one could hear it, it made her feel better. Full of rustic charm, the real estate agent had called it. My little haven away from the world, he'd called it. And she'd been enthusiastic about it too. Wouldn't it be nice to be away from the smog and the noise of the city?

It wasn't a bad little house, really. And when he came home he would light candles and the whole place would just light up in that homey way it had. Then it really was a little haven. But somehow she just couldn't fill the space, and outside the world stretched away into terrifying nothingness. And even in the house the acrid stench of black smoke had followed her.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a chewed-up old box of cigarettes. A purse seemed some how out of place in a rural place like this, anachronistic maybe, but it was a habit she hadn't had the will to break. Like smoking. They were ties to that world beyond the edge of the world, the bright lights and flamboyant mannerisms of the city.

He hadn't liked the city, hadn't liked the lights and the caged sky. He always said it was a crime to cage the sky behind telephone wires and trolley lines. He'd get really worked up about it, sent letters to the newspapers and to the government a couple of times. That was one of the things she loved about him. He was always so passionate and he didn't care what anyone else thought. He burned so brightly and so truly, that was why he couldn�t stand the weak electric glare of the city lights.

She pulled out a single rumpled cigarette and pushed it unceremoniously between her lips. She pulled out her lighter, an ancient plastic affair in eye-numbing shades of fuchsia and lime green. She flicked the wheel irritably but it only sparked and failed to produce a steady flame. She tried a couple more times, but it still wouldn't light. Shit.

She went to find some matches, but the matches were gone. She might have looked in the shed, but the smoke that had snaked its way into the house was giving her a killer headache. She wished she could leave, just drive away to someplace crowded and warm and full of light, but he had taken the truck out to the airport with him. She hoped he'd be back soon. Somehow, she knew he'd know what to do about the infernal smoke. He was always smart like that.

She wandered around the empty house, unlit cigarette hanging limp from her jaw. She was beginning to feel sick from the fumes. And she waited for him to come home.

Above the roiling black smoke the stars were falling in a blaze of glory.