The Morning of August 6, 1945
The morning of August 6, 1945, began like any other. In Hiroshima, children walked to school holding lunch boxes their mothers had packed. Some people were sweeping their doorsteps; others were already at work.
Then, in a blinding flash, the sky itself seemed to explode.
In that instant, everything changed. Buildings crumbled as if they were made of paper. The air turned into fire, and the streets were filled with cries, some loud, some fading too quickly. People wandered through the ruins, their clothes tattered, their skin burned, holding the hands of children who could no longer speak.
Hours later, as the fires still burned, the sky darkened again. From the clouds above, thick drops began to fall. Black rain, heavy with ash and soot. Some were desperate with thirst, thought it was clean water and drank. It ran down faces and clothes, into wounds, carrying a silent poison no one yet understood.