Footsteps crunched softly over the sandy ground. A line of people stretched neatly under the harsh midday sun. No one spoke. Only the shuffle of sandals and weary breaths filled the air.
I stood in the middle of the queue, holding an empty tray. My hand gripped the handle tighter than it needed to. Sunlight filtered through the white tent above, casting faint shadows of waiting bodies.
When it was my turn, an old man ladled warm potato soup into my bowl. I gave a small nod, murmured, "Thank you," and left in silence.
My tent was at the farthest corner. I entered, sat in the corner, and placed the bowl on a shaky foldable table. The book... was still there. I had kept it by my pillow, and now moved it to my side. Its worn cover seemed to pulse—tempting me to open it.
But I didn't.
I stared at it quietly. There was fear, hesitation, something that held my fingers back. I knew... whatever I read next, it would come true. Just like before.
And I wasn't ready.
I leaned my head against the tent pole. Took a deep breath. Tried to accept it all—that I, somehow, had a role in this. That silence was no longer an option. But I didn't want to run, either.
Better to wait, to think, to steady my heart.
Days passed. The sky changed colors. Winds shifted seasons. The moon gave way to new years. And now… it's the third year since the tragedy.
Shionra stands again. Not as strong, not as beautiful. But it stands.
So do I.
I lowered my gaze, eyes fixed on the book.
I took a breath. Then, with steady voice, I whispered:
"It's time."