The mushroom cloud rolling across the sky looks peaceful, almost. Like a small drop of dye in a clear glass, spreading into intricate designs with grace and ease. Ash falls slowly from the sky. It looks just like snow, only gray, and it isn't cold to touch. A small girl ran out of a shop to try and catch a bit on her tongue, but a frantic grandmother pulled her back inside quick as a snap, scolding her with fear in her eyes.
I think it's beautiful. Everything is coated in a layer of gray. It's like God decided that the only thing more serene than a snow day or a gray rainy day would be a gray rainy snow day, everything matching the color of Grandpapa's beard. No one dares to go outside, so there is not a single footstep marring the fire-born snow.