Record

Darkness descended from the sky downwards; it obscured everything except a solitary rectangle of light-glowing from a digital video camera. Soft, not-yet-adult fingers pushed a tape into place. Then, they stretched to the button.

-PLAY-

Adult hands, dusted with white flour, kneaded dough. Over the edge of the table, little round eyes peeked out.

“Mama, bread.”

“Yes, Lily. Mama’s baking bread. Will my sweetie help mama bake bread?”

The light breezes that cooled the day’s heat found the way to the front of Lily’s wavy hair strands. The rest tangled between her fingers, forming a loosely chestnut braid.

“This is my fork! the lion fork is mine! Give it to me!”

“No! I took it first. Use the giraffe spoon!”

Siblings’ innocent arguments fell behind their remaining childhood. Their childhood, untouched by the passage of time, left Lily to grow up on her own, forgetting that she needed to argue with them as much as they did.

“Enough you two,” a rough voice barged in and scolded the kids. “Everyone will get a fork.”

A shiver ran down Lily’s spine, and goosebumps rose; not because the warmth of the sun had been stolen by the sunset. She rolled down the folded sleeves of her beige shirt and buttoned them around her wrists.

An old man patted his lap, “Give grandpa a kiss.”

Upon seeing her grandfather a knot swelled in her throat. He was the only one among them fortunate enough to meet his grandchildren.

“What about Auntie?” Sweet kisses rained down on her too, captured by the lens that never reflected them again.

It was thanks to this lens that Lily had a clear recollection of their faces; had she relied on her distant memories she would have forgotten.

-STOP-

She turned her sight away from the artificial light. A field of stars reflected in her warm hazel eyes.

The full moon cast blue hues across the vast, remote landscape. A dry, cracked patch of ground between two banks was the last sign of the wide river. Its waters now flowed in the mind of the last one who’d stayed and remembered. Randomly scattered rocks of various sizes littered the terrain as the hand of time slowly tumbled them down the slopes.

She stood up, shaking the dirt off the back of her auburn velvet shorts before grabbing the handle of the camera she had left on a rock facing her and sliding it over her shoulder.

Crossing the dried-out surface, split in lines, she came to an area strewn with gravel. The shadows of crumbling structures laid across her path, narrowed by piles of rubble. A faint orange glow flickered from the holes in their half-destroyed walls, gleaming on the handcrafted supports that kept the buildings stable for a time.

The stillness of the night that ran alongside Lily slowed down until it was far behind her. Replaced by the screams of board game players and mothers calling their children to dinner.

She encountered one of the look-alike structures, untied her shoes, and unlocked the front door. Slipping her feet out of her footwear, she stepped into the dark interior, where a faint glow from outside poured soft shadows, outlining the furniture in dim shades. She placed her shoes beside another pair, larger in size. With her hands now free, she retrieved a box of matches and navigated through the compartments. Guided by the familiar path she knew by heart, she reached the half-melted candle. Lighting it, she carried the flickering flame into the kitchen.

As she lifted the lid of the pot on the stove, the aroma of garlicky lentil soup stimulated her appetite, mingling with the gaseous scent escaping from the stove plate before she ignited it.

She reached into the cabinet, its door crooked and hanging unevenly on loose hinges, and took out two plates. She placed them on the table with two spoons, tearing some dried bread onto a piece of cloth.

While waiting for the soup to reach a boil, she retrieved the damp towel tucked beneath the fridge, wringing it out in the sink before placing it back to soak up the steady drip from the appliance-a consequence of the frequent electricity cuts throughout the day, especially at night; the hours with working lightbulbs over the year could be counted on one hand. Once the soup reached a simmer, she turned off the heat and took a seat, waiting.

She waited and waited, minutes turning into an eternity. Finally, the soup had grown cold. She sighed and reluctantly reheated it. Sitting alone at the table, she stared at the empty plate beside hers, the silence heavy around each spoonful, broken only by the low, moaning noise of the cold wind seeping through tiny cracks.

After finishing her meal, she rinsed her plate, her movements automatic yet quick, mindful of every drop. The water in their storage tank was down to less than 400 liters, a supply that needed to last the household five more days until the next refill.

She headed to grab the sheets for the sofa. Her hand brushed against the fabric, where an old leather jacket draped over the armrest. She held it tightly in her hands, looking out the window, and bit her lip at the sight of plastic bags drifting by. The routine of changing into her pajamas and brushing her teeth did little to calm her mind.

Back in her room, she slid into bed, pulling the covers tightly around herself. The familiar anticipation pressed down on her, as she listened intently, hoping to hear the front door creak open. But the minutes dragged on, the ticking of the clock growing louder in the stillness. Sleep slowly pulled at her, heavy and inevitable, until she drifted into uneasy slumber.

A sudden creak from the front door startled her awake. She blinked, disoriented, her forehead still tingling from the dreamlike kiss she thought she’d felt moments ago. Jolted by instinct, she threw back the covers and hurried toward the door.

She padded through the dark hallway, her hand reaching for the front door. She pulled it open, letting the crisp, cool air rush in. Stepping outside, she looked around, her eyes scanning the empty street. The silence was almost too loud, and the cold bit at her skin. There was no sign of him. Once again, she had missed him.

With a heavy sigh, she closed the door and locked it, retreating back inside. The jacket she’d set on the hook earlier was gone-at least her uncle remembered to take it this time before his shift.

Returning to her still-warm bed sheets, she lay her head down, gazing at the ceiling as it caught the first light of the day. The peeling paint and the gaps on the concrete, where sections of rusted rebar had been extracted, created shapes that sparked her imagination, crafting a masterpiece in her daily fantasies. Whether it resembled a bird, a man, a face, or a dress, each morning unveiled a different image within the same form.

The rising sun streamed into her room. She glanced at the sheer cream-colored curtains, which swayed gently in the sunlight, carrying floating dust particles that glittered in the rays, providing her with a sense of companionship with Mother Nature. Her wooden wardrobe, straw boxes, stuffed rabbit, teddy bear, and table fan caught a golden undertone from the beams, basking in the warmth they provided.

It was half a room - one of countless which had borne the brunt of devastation in the once-vibrant city. The other half lay in ruins, but within one of its recesses, Lily had ingeniously fashioned a small shelter. Stepping inside, her eyes fell upon a makeshift table, its back supported by blocks of stones, where a cluster of cables awaited her.

She set to work, her nimble fingers deftly extracting the copper wires from their plastic tubes. With practiced precision, she coiled together several wires around a thin stick, carefully shaping them into delicate petals with a long stem. Each twist and turn of her fingers brought the tiny flower to life before her eyes. Lost in her craft, she created a handful more flowers, her movements fluid and instinctual, unaware of the passage of time.

In the bustling afternoon, when the city hummed with vitality, Lily embarked on her quest for wires. As she navigated the streets of Branchwood, she immersed herself in the active pulse of the town, surrounded by the rhythmic clatter of makeshift structures, the steady rumble of carts hauling debris and transferring water, their pumps whirring loudly to fill the depleted tanks, blending with the chorus of construction crews shouting instructions.

The landscape was a sandy-dust expanse, where every surface seemed to be coated in a layer of fade except for the people of Branchwood who stood out like splashes of color against a monochrome canvas. Lily observed the teeming pedestrians as they adorned themselves in a kaleidoscope of hues, each smudge of purple, yellow, green, or red saturating with each step closer to the passing figures. Faces and skins, youngsters and adults, males and females-all had been vibrantly painted with the famous Wogy-Wdy which Lily didn’t have.

By that she remained unseen, her pale skin blending seamlessly with the dull ruin. Surrounded by individuals who wore their bold colors like a badge of honor, she couldn’t help but feel the stark contrast of her own muted existence, a mere observer in a world that had moved on without her.

However, her presence was noticeable by the scorching touch of the sun that baked her head as she made her way through the thick air, filled with the smell of dust and decay. This scent was intensified by the swirling particles of debris being emptied onto piled mounds, creating a fog-like atmosphere that obscured her vision. Traversing cautiously through the haze surrounding the massive shattered ruins, she eventually reached the abandoned vehicles, her station for collecting the essential cables. These metal skeletons, missing parts like seats, doors, and mirrors, were once symbols of mobility. Now, they stood as silent witnesses to Lily’s meticulous extraction of the remaining components and a nearby conversation of girls growing clearer.

“Can we borrow a couple of sprays of your perfume?” one of the girls requested.

The owner of the perfume nodded in affirmation followed by the discharge of the vaporizer leaving an ocean fragrance in the wind. This aroma was noticed by the girls who seemed to question the owner about it. “It’s called Soft Breeze” the owner loudly declared while pointing at the label.

Soft Breeze, Lily repeated silently, committing the name to memory.

She glanced out the window, watching the group of girls her age walking away, their laughter carried by the wind.

The abandoned car beneath her creaked sharply, causing her heart to lurch. With a surge of panic, she bolted out just in time, barely avoiding the car’s collapse. She then followed the path the distant group of girls had taken.

Before long, she spotted them as they rejoined the bustling crowd, eventually settling in to draw a chalk game on the cracked pavement. A claustrophobic sensation gripped Lily’s chest as she watched from a distance.

If only I could be one of them, she thought wistfully, her heart aching with longing. Her eyes followed the vibrant Wogy-Wdy patterns painted across their faces, the smudged colors radiating confidence and joy-qualities she desperately wished for herself. What would it feel like to laugh with them, my face adorned with those same bold designs? She imagined herself leaping alongside them, her laughter blending effortlessly into theirs. But the space between sitting all alone in some forgotten corner and truly belonging felt like an uncrossable chasm.

Her thoughts spiraled into dreams of transformation, imagining herself shedding her invisibility, stepping into their colorful world. Why am I always on the outside, looking in? The desire to belong, to wear Wogy-Wdy makeup and share in their carefree moments, tightened in her chest. The longing to escape her own shadow, to step fully into the life she watched from afar, was almost unbearable. She wished, more than anything, to stop being invisible and finally be part of Branchwood for real.

~~~

Your time is precious.

Thank you for it.

🔜

With a tender strength, she was lifted up the ground. On the way through the quiet streets, she floated in the arms that were wrapping protectively around her. She felt a sense of security wash over her, for she knew it was him, Samuel, her uncle.

📼