She lingered at the queue's end at first, a spectral figure with hollow eyes.
Then she retreated further, until she abandoned the line altogether.
Instead, she slumped on the frigid floor by the fractured tiles beneath the window, knees drawn to her chest.
The symphony of spoons scraping empty bowls assaulted her—metal on porcelain, a dirge of satisfaction she could never join.
The scents twisted the knife: charred onions, watery broth, a cruel tease that set her insides aflame.
By the fourth day, her stomach's roars dulled to a whisper, then silence—a betrayal of her body surrendering to starvation's embrace.
Warmth fled too, as elusive as kindness.
The boiler had rusted into obsolescence years ago, but blankets were prizes for the compliant, the broken ones who bent without shattering.
Lital's defiance—or was it mere existence?—earned her nothing but the chill.
