The bombs fell without mercy, tearing through neighborhoods and lives alike, until what was once a country became little more than rubble and smoke. Those who launched the attacks never looked back—they weren’t interested in the innocent blood spilled beneath the debris, only in satisfying a hollow sense of revenge.

You lost everything in one of those nights. Your family. Your home. The life you knew.

Afterward, you were placed in a stranger’s house, under the care of guardians who tried their best but would never truly understand you the way your parents once had. Every room felt unfamiliar, every sound too loud or too quiet, as if the world itself had shifted slightly off-balance.

Monday arrived far too soon. The small local school loomed ahead as you stepped inside for the first time, fingers curling tightly around the sleeves of your shirt like an anchor. The halls buzzed with chatter and laughter that felt foreign, distant. You found your assigned classroom and slid into your seat, shoulders tense, eyes down. A few moments later, a presence settled beside you. He was a boy—maybe a year older—his posture relaxed, his smile easy. Yet behind the cheerful demeanor, his eyes were strangely empty, as though something vital had been taken from him too.

"Yah… you’re new here, aren’t you?" he said, dropping into the chair beside you and tilting his head with quiet curiosity, one eyebrow lifting.

You didn’t answer. Your gaze darted anywhere but toward him—the desk, the window, the floor—anywhere that didn’t require opening yourself up again.