Not all damage is visible.

Most of it is psychological.

The attic blazed like a kiln, its air scorching my nostrils until I felt nothing. My water jug sat empty, its last drops drunk under the previous night's moon. My phone was dead; its cables had been chewed to frayed stubs by rats. A new one waited beyond this rotting sanctuary, but so did the world—hunting me, whispering my name like a conscription roll. Why this attic? Of all the city's hiding places, I'd chosen the worst. Rats unnerved me, and here they swarmed, drawn perha

"Olya, my love," I whispered, clutching the phone in my left hand. The ward's fluorescent lights flickered on, humming like distant shells. Silence was heavy and ash-like. "Sasha, stay strong," she said, her voice distant like a winter breeze. "But I can't pretend anymore. Our love is gone. I'm better off here. I've found someone who loves me." The phone slipped from her hand, crashing to the floor. A blade, merciless, plunged into my chest, slicing between two ribs and catch

Evenings fell into darkness. Our leader's ambitious economic plan had cut everything off—electricity flickering out by seven, food rations shrinking to whispers, and freedom becoming a fairy tale rationed like coal. My father spun stories to speed our sleep, his voice the only light in that single heated room where we three sisters huddled against the winter's chill. Each of us longed for something different: I, the oldest, yearned for adventures tinged with reality's grit; m