Beneath The Burning Silence

The soft warmth of early spring sunlight crept across my skin. Somewhere down the hall, the familiar scent of my mother's Sunday cooking drifted through the cracks of memory. That meal—eggs, herbs, smoked potatoes—always meant safety. Outside, the birds sang like nothing had ever gone wrong, their chirps blending with the wind threading its way through the old trees. I could almost hear my mother calling me—soft at first, then fading, slipping away like everything else. Next to me, Keli sat, watching me with those steady, amber eyes. He was the only soul left in my life, my stubborn, greedy dog, who never let me wake up alone. That morning was no different—except everything had changed. Everything else had been torn away. I got upset slowly. Books lay scattered across the wooden floor, fallen from the overstuffed shelf, and ash still smoldered in the fireplace, the remnants of last night's cold. The air was sharp, seeping in through the cracks in the walls like the world outside wanted to swallow me whole. The narrow hallway to the kitchen was darker than usual. My footsteps echoed in the silence, the old oak laminate creaking beneath each step. The kitchen—if it could be called that—was sparse. A three-legged table, chipped chairs, a tired stove, and a fridge clinging to half-spoiled cans. Gloom seemed permanent here. Even the sunlight felt weary. I warmed a can of beans and some processed meat over the last dregs of gas while Keli whined, pawing his empty bowl. His whimpers broke something in me. This wasn't a life. It was survival, at best. Hiding, grieving, remembering. I wasn't even sure what I was holding on for. The Nortons had taken everything. They called themselves protectors—guardians of the nation—but their uniforms were soaked in blood and greed. My parents were just two more names erased in their path. We used to live on a small farm, far from anyone. A sanctuary, we thought. Until they came. I still remember the morning they stormed in, guns raised, voices like thunder. I hid under the bed with Keli, who wasn't even six months old then. He didn't bark. He just pressed his tiny body into mine like he already knew silence would save us. I saw the bodies. I saw what they did. And I never forgot. This house—my uncle's—was the only place left. I found it after digging through my father's drawer, desperate for something, anything. It's hidden deep in the forest, off any trail, with no roads or neighbors. We've been here for weeks. Maybe more. Time doesn't make much sense anymore. I poured the beans into a cracked bowl and sat down with Keli at my side. His tail thumped once, grateful. My jaw tightened as I stared at the food. I could barely swallow past the rage. Then came the sound. A shift. A breath of silence broken. Keli stood abruptly, ears perked. His body went tense, then—just like that—he bolted through the door.