Day 1
Newport had always choked on its own breath. The riverside factories vented soot that coated every rooftop, every lung. People joked that the city’s air was half coal dust, half oxygen. But no one laughed when the coughing began.
The sickness came quietly at first: a tickle in the throat, a dryness in the chest. By dawn, the victims coughed up black flakes, as if their lungs were turning to ash. By the third day, their lips split open into permanent sneers. Voices scalded away until all that escaped their throats was a hiss, like steam escaping an old pipe.
No one survived the seventh day. The dead collapsed into brittle shells that burst into clouds of dust when disturbed. Breathe in a speck of it, and your countdown began.
They called it Ashmouth.
Your writing style is so majestic and so is the plot. I am curious to know more about Ashmouth