The silence broke with the faint scrape of boots against concrete. A figure appeared in the doorway, framed by the flickering glow of a failing light deeper in the tunnel. Their movements were cautious, almost reverent, as though stepping into a tomb.
It was a woman, shoulders hunched beneath a torn coat that had once been olive green but was now the color of ash. Her face was streaked with dirt, her eyes hollow yet sharp, carrying the reflection of firestorms she had walked through to reach this place. She stood for a moment, listening—the distant war sounded like a storm above the ocean, relentless, unending.
She crossed into the room, her footsteps whispering in the dust. The broken chair caught her gaze, and she lingered near it as if considering whether to sit or keep moving. Her hand brushed across the rusted lantern on the floor, her fingers trembling at the touch of cold metal. It had been years since such objects felt safe—lanterns meant light, and light meant discovery.
She let out a breath, one that shuddered with exhaustion. Then, lowering herself against the wall, she slid to the floor. The room seemed to hold its breath with her, as though recognizing that someone had finally returned.
From her coat pocket, she drew a scrap of paper, folded and refolded until it was soft at the creases. She stared at it for a long moment. Words were faintly inked there, almost illegible, but she didn’t need to read them anymore. She knew them by heart.
For the first time since she had entered, her lips moved—not in prayer, not in despair, but in a whisper meant for the ruins above:
"Still alive."
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