- Elara Voss:
The rice simmers in the pot, the bubbling water releasing soft puffs of steam into the cold air.
I stir it absently with a wooden spoon I found in a drawer, my mind too restless to focus solely on cooking.
The potatoes and onions sizzle in a pan over the fire, filling the air with their earthy, comforting scent. It's a poor meal, but it's warm, and that's more than I've had in days.
I listen to the silence beyond the ruined house, my senses tuned to the night. There's always a moment—just before an attack—when the world feels too still. As if the darkness itself is holding its breath.
I've learned to recognize that stillness.
Not yet.
For now, the wind still moves through the trees, rustling brittle leaves and swaying broken branches. The world isn't holding its breath.
Not yet.
I scoop some of the rice and vegetables into a dented bowl, sitting cross-legged by the fire as I eat.
