The night was loud—louder than any storm.
It was as if the sky itself was screaming through the crack of rifles and the hiss of missiles,
a relentless drumbeat echoing above the capital.
Hours before, the power was already cut.
The basement beneath my fragile concrete house shuddered with every distant blast, and fear hung in the air like the end of time.
I hid beneath the old table—its legs splintered—seeking comfort in its shadow, ignoring the deeper, suffocating darkness that didn't exist.
I didn't know how long I had been here, or how much longer I would stay.
Maybe until dawn.
Maybe forever.
My only solace was my battered MP4 player. Earbuds jammed deep, I listened to the melody of my mother's voice—gentle, soft, angelic. She sang the same lullaby whenever I couldn't sleep.
Like a sheep with no wool,
My hands lie cold—colder than the snow.
I need no man to tell me so;
I only long for an angel's whisper….
I pulled myself tighter into the narrow space, gripping the sleeve of my dusty white school shirt as though I could push the world away.
Against the warmth of this empty world,
Stretch forth with your gentle wings.
Bless this son from my keep, and show him—
The light where our eyes turn white.
—(her voice dropped, softer)—
That melody kept me sane.
It was the only time I could hear her real voice again—not a memory, not a dream, but truly her.
And as long as she sang, the darkness lost its teeth. It couldn't devour me.
Raise him beyond heaven's gate;
Cage him tighter, if you must.
Let him not drown in my loneliness,
For this night is my home—as I am sworn to the cold.
My love is cold…
Then—footsteps.
Slow.
Cautious.
They stopped in front of me.
A soft flicker of warmth broke through the dark. The cold retreated just enough for me to see a glow. Brown eyes—like mine, yet steadier, brighter—shimmered in the candlelight, carrying the confidence of sunlight chasing away shadows.
Calm.
Concerned.
Kind.
The flame caught her pale face. Sweat gleamed on skin worn by work yet softened by gentleness. Her faint smile made the air feel lighter. She wore a simple white top and a beige skirt under a purple blazer, her dark brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, a few strands falling free to frame her radiant face.
I lifted my head from my folded arms, feeling a tear balance in my eye. The fire wavered, throwing shadows across her face.
"Lucy?"
I questioned her sudden presence.
She crouched quietly, holding a piece of bread in one hand. Her expression, calm and full of something close to peace.
I paused the recording.
"Hugo Gharib," she said, her voice as warm and steady as the flame between us. "You're fourteen now. Come on—you can't be afraid like this. You're already a grown man."
My head lowered. Guilt swelled in my chest, even though her words were meant to strengthen me.
"I don't feel like I could ever be a grown-up," I murmured. "What's being a grown-up about, anyway?"
"First step," she said with a faint smile, "is stepping out from the dark. Keep hiding, and you'll never find the answer for yourself." She extended her hand slowly, offering the bread. "Have faith in your reliable older sister," she said, placing her free hand proudly over her chest.
Her voice was warm, full of age and patience—a kind of calm the bombs hadn't broken.
"You must be tired from staying up all night."
I reached out, accepting the bread.
"Thanks, Lucy."
CRASH.
A distant explosion shattered the silence like glass. I flinched, dropping the bread as dust rained from the ceiling, coating everything in gray.
I didn't move. I only curled tighter beneath the old table, pressing my back to the wall. My fingers clawed into my scalp.
"Please stop."
"Please stop."
"Please stop—"
Lucy sighed—slowly, exasperated, almost theatrical.
"Ahh, hah… look at what you've done now." Her tone, mildly irritated but still kind.
She picked the bread up, brushed it off, and took a bite as if nothing had happened.
"Wait, I'll get you a fresh one. Haha… silly Hugo."
She chuckled as she headed upstairs. Her shoulders shook with it—like there hadn't been a bomb a moment ago. Like fear didn't exist for her. She even slept through the night, untouched by the chaos outside.
Then I heard them.
Beyond the basement walls—voices.
Bells.
A crowd gathering.
Chanting.
"PARADYSIA FOREVER!"
"LONG LIVE KING ROYA!"
It hit me like a sudden gust of wind.
The war was over.
Lucy must've heard it too.
She tilted her head, as if listening to an old song.
"Oh, looks like they've all crept out of their burrows," she breathed.
"HUGO….You can come up now… Looks like it's over. "
I didn't take the front door.
Leaving the basement behind, I found the ladder and pulled myself out of the wood-framed window, cold wind biting my skin as I edged onto the roof.
"WHOA—!" I gasped, grabbing hold the edge of the window frame. My heart pounded. "That was close. One wrong move and I'm doomed."
Below me, the narrow streets between the houses overflowed with people. They poured out of alleys and bunkers, faces lifted toward the sky
Trumpets blared. Cheers rolled through the air like waves.
Flags fluttered—white and gold, the emblem of the crown framed by outstretched wings and a cloud beneath, symbols of freedom and deliverance.
The sun crept over the horizon, spilling gold across broken rooftops and shattered glass. The light washed over the concrete city, painting orange and amber over scars that had once only known grey.
The Capital of Paradysia looked alive again.
Like it had been holding its breath… and finally exhaled.
"They did it," I muttered to myself. "Ash actually did it."
But when I turned my head—two blocks to the right—my breath caught.
A house like mine was gone. In its place, a jagged heap of splintered wood and shattered stone.. Smoke curled faintly from the wreckage. Families clawed through the debris with their bare hands, their fingers bleeding, their voices raw.
Crying. Screaming. Cursing.
"Damn you, Ezrians! Damn you for taking my family!"
"Why, my king? Why couldn't you save my brother?!"
Grief cut through the morning like glass.
Some mourned. Others marched—flags high—streaming toward the palace in celebration.
I stood frozen on the rooftop.
Watching both.
Feeling both.
Somehow, Lucy was beside me, leaning on the window from inside. I didn't hear her climb. Didn't feel her approach. But she looked down at the same sight.
"They were just like us, Hugo," she said quietly. "Victims of a war they never wanted to be part of. And eventually… we'll all share the same fate."
"You can't always prepare for what's coming. Sometimes… this is all we can do. Even as a grown-up."
Her words sank into me like icy rain.
I stared at the capital's horizon—at the rubble, the parades, the blood, the sunrise—and a question sat heavy in my chest.
Is this really what living is all about?
Accepting a way of life through Fear and Destruction?
I didn't know the answers.
But I knew one thing:
I gripped the window frame, the slow wind brushing against me.
"Paradysia will always be my home."
Lucy smiled, nodding.
And while I may never understand this world—or its horrors—I can't let go of my curiosity.
The truth is… I don't want to move forward.
I just want peace.
But deep down, I know the world won't let me be.
I know I'll get dragged into something—something I never asked for. Something that doesn't care what I want.
And so I pray—
…I pray I won't be swallowed by it.