The sky was breathing slowly, as if the whole universe had bowed,
in priestly reverence before an eternal painting drawn by a god of forgetting time.
Rather, celestial, like an ornament in the heights,
from a cloud where the stars burned.
Like a lost manuscript from ages, written by a non-human hand,
on the body of night with cosmic ink, the galaxies stacked like seals.
Surrounded by a cold blue glow, eyes watched it secretly,
from behind the veil.
The brightest star in the sky did not shine, but whispered,
sending secretly a call in the void, an invitation to whoever dares to decipher—
the curse. Or the code…
A line of light on the horizon where the hills melted in darkness,
behind the mountains, faint as if dawn long ago trying to return,
but condemned to remain prisoner of the stars.
And the reflection of the sky in the lake appeared like an inverted world, like a mirror,
a purified version of reality above, deep enough to swallow,
hesitant enough to make time delay before crossing it,
and the soul remain still.
But the ash was descending on them, soft like dust, yet cold… not warm.
As if it was the remains of burned bodies still not vanished,
searching for the earth.
The group slipped through the torn alleys of the city,
like ghosts passing silently between the ruins of civilization.
The walls polluted with blackness, the windows empty,
as if someone stripped memory out of them.
At the end of the line, Neva's mother walked behind,
but she never once looked back.
Neva raised her head, gazed at her mother's slightly bent back,
her slow steps dragging only her body forward,
as if her soul was being pulled behind.
"Mother…"
Neva whispered, then repeated louder:
"Mother, pay attention…"
But no response.
Mira continued walking, as if the voice had not been born at all.
As if everything behind her no longer mattered.
Neva lowered her head, clenched her mother's wrist tightly,
her fingers reddened.
There was something in her chest that hurt, not from fear, not from sorrow,
but confusion.
How can life be a chain on a mother, instead of existence?
On her left, the woman who saved her was walking,
firm, cautious, holding a light weapon.
Her eyes moved between the corners, as if she knew what she was searching for.
But Neva did not feel comfort, nor gratitude, nor rest towards her.
(I don't know her… she is not my mother. And she never will be.)
Scattered burned papers fell above their heads.
They passed by the corpse of a man in a black suit, torn,
his eyes open and stiff, but no one stopped.
The air heavy, mixed with the smell of smoke and burned skin.
(Why doesn't she respond? Is my mother hurt? Did she die in something? Does she still love me?)
Neva swallowed her saliva, clenched her fist.
Exhaustion was crawling to her feet, but she refused to show it.
Despite the heat, despite the ash, despite the fear.
"My father… never tired."
"My brother… always said pain is only an idea."
She raised her head again and continued walking.
She felt every step was a test.
If she retreated even a moment, she would not be Mira's daughter.
But now… that no longer mattered.
What mattered was that the silent woman ahead turned and said:
"I am here, Neva."
But she did not turn.
They found at the edge of a half-collapsed building,
its iron door bent, its windows shadowed.
As if someone had drawn fog upon it with soot,
blackness that cannot be erased.
The scarred man said with a steady tone, though his voice seemed wounded like the city itself:
"Let's go in. We will rest here a little."
They entered.
Inside, the smell was loaded, but not suffocating like outside—
damp with ruin.
The air still, like the breath of the dead had not left the place yet.
Without a word, they spread through the building.
The woman who had saved Neva checked the corners first, her weapon in her hand.
The second man lit a small lamp, revealing dust piled high, broken benches and wooden desks.
Even the old furniture was there, corroded wood,
some stained with dry blood.
Neva sat in a corner near the wall,
hugging her knees, and glanced toward her mother.
Mira sat on a cracked chair, her back bent,
her eyes staring into emptiness.
No movement. No word.
Like a statue carved from ash.
"Mother…"
Neva whispered.
For a moment, her mother's eyes lifted, meeting her daughter's eyes… but said nothing.
Then she lowered her gaze again, to nowhere.
Neva bit her lip.
In her eyes was a mix of something she could not yet tell apart—
anger, perhaps, or sorrow.
The woman sat close to her without touching her.
Neva turned toward her, then looked away, as if ashamed of herself.
(Why… why don't you say anything?
If you were just an ordinary woman,
you would have held me now and told me it would be okay…
But you are not. You are not my mother.)
She looked at her own hands—dirty, trembling, but not shaking.
(If I am not afraid… why does my heart want to run from my chest?)
She tried to breathe deeply,
but the smell of rot, of old fire and books,
entered her chest.
It was closer to truth than anything she had tasted all her life.
In the corner, the scarred man pulled out a piece of dry bread,
and some dried fruit.
He divided them silently, without a word.
When he handed Neva her share, she whispered thanks.
He only nodded.
The hunger was like stones in her throat,
but she ate slowly.
When she looked again toward her mother, she found her still there… unmoving on the chair.
They finished eating, or rather chewing, in silence.