As far back as I can remember, the sky has been gray. Not the gray of clouds, not the gray of fog. The sun itself has become a dim white spot, like a dead eye.
My father said it was because dust thrown into the atmosphere by nuclear explosions was still drifting overhead. He said it would take decades, even centuries, for it all to settle. He told me many things about the old world. He called that time “the Blue Age.”
I've never seen anything blue, except in a photograph tucked into his notebook: a postcard of the old world's ocean. It was such a vivid blue it hurt to look at, so blue it seemed unreal.
“Did the ocean really look like that?” I once asked my father.
“It was even bluer,” he said. “But not every place was blue. Some places were deep blue, some were emerald green, and some...”
