You still remember the sun rising over the desert, the way the sand would glitter and the cool night air slowly faded. You still remember the sound of gunfire from the village, the shouting echoing against the walls of the home you once called... home. As the sun rose and the heat grew, your family fled into the dry wasteland in hope of finding a better land...

Mother would sing you to sleep, tell you not to cry. The boat rocked back and forth as you hid under the deck. It made you sick.

There were 22 of us. You counted. You don't know what happened to the others. There were 134 loose nails on the ground. There were 35 crates. You don't know why you counted.

When you got to the city all you could do was stare. The lights... there were so many. Buildings reached high into the night sky, their lights reaching for the heavens themselves. You thought the cars and busses would never stop. Horns blaring and headlights flashing, the city was so alive. Every street was crowded, people walked in all directions as if they had no regard for anyone else. Even the air was different here... it was heavy and thick, it felt hard to breath. Your family was called things no human should be called. But you didn't know that. You didn't notice the looks you got, the stares. You didn't notice how mother and father seemed to hold you tighter, almost as if afraid they'd lose you. You didn't realize the strength it took them to leave their home to give you a better one.

You stood in the rain one night, mother clutched your hand tightly. She was crying, but you didn't notice. Someone had yelled at her, told her she wasn't welcome. You didn't understand why. You looked up at the sky. You couldn't see the stars, the city was too bright. "I want to go home." You had whispered.

"We are home. This is our home." She whispered back.

That was 10 years ago.