Rani Westwood Part 1 The sky had not been blue in seventeen years. People still talked about the last clear morning in whispers, like it was a folk tale passed down through ash-coated generations. They said the light used to feel warm, not searing. That clouds were once white and fluffy, not permanent smears of smoke stretching from one side of the horizon to the other. But I was born three years after the Last Sky, so to me, the world had always been grey. I adjusted the oxygen mask over my face and tightened the seals of my jacket.…