A Cage of White Silence

The messenger's words felt like heavy, wet snow settling on my shoulders. The main pass is closed until spring. This village, this small pocket of survival, has become a cage of white silence.

At breakfast, Mother’s eyes were too bright, too expectant. "Any news from Noya?" she asked, her voice a soft blade. I could feel the weight of the envelope at the bottom of my bag, pressed against my hip—the one with the same unit seal as his. I lied. I lied so easily that it felt like my tongue had turned to lead. I told her there was nothing, no news, no traces.

I wonder how many more times I can wrap my voice in these layers of false peace before the seams burst. If the snow keeps falling, if we are trapped here until the thaw, I will have to live inside this lie every single day. The heat from the soup couldn't reach the coldness in my stomach.