The Cremation

After watching the small meteor burn up in midair, leaving only a few dark snowflakes of ash to drift gently down to the earth, the boy stared at the dark blue sky and remembered the smell of burnt coffee at the hospital and the smoke of the crematorium, and he said to himself as he walked home through tawny fields, haunted industrial marshes and arcane mineral streets of concete and cast iron, I am not made of stardust.

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