The world didn't end in fire or flood. It ended in silence. In smoke. In ash.

Long after the collapse, a lone survivor wanders through the ruins of memory and meaning, haunted by the ghost of someone they loved — or maybe just imagined. The days are gray. The air is thick. Breathing hurts.

There are no monsters here. No wars. Just the echo of loss and the stubborn heartbeat of someone who still hopes, even when they shouldn't.

Told in fractured prose and quiet revelation, Ash in Our Lungs is a meditation on grief, survival, and the fragile things we carry when the world forgets how to care. For readers who found beauty in The Road or Station Eleven, this is not a story of how humanity ended — but how it lingered.