“Please,” he begged with a dry throat. “Please, we can’t stay here.”

He could barely see through the tears, blood, and dust that streaked his face, but he remained fixated on his mother’s closed eyes. Her hand lied still and cold beneath his grasp. Their home was left completely ravaged. Jars broken, rugs ripped, books and clothes set afire, food stomped to mush, and weapons snapped in half like twigs.

Daehyun let out choked sobs as he continued on, “Please, get up. It’s dangerous to stay here.”

He was so focused, he didn’t notice when light flooded in from outside.

Yongguk had moved the cloth curtain aside, leaning in the doorway. He was in a shape similar to Daehyun, but with more cuts and bruises. Youngjae, who stood next to the taller, older boy had somehow remained relatively untouched aside from the dirt that coated his fair skin.

Youngjae silenced a gasp, staring at the scene before him.

“Do you know him?” Yongguk asked Youngjae as the two continued to watch Daehyun plead that his mother wake up. She lied on the floor with her skirt ripped for a horrifically clear reason and the top of her head bludgeoned open in a messy, disturbing display. She had clearly left this world, yet her faithful son sat beside her with what was either admirable hope or pitiful denial. They all knew which one it was.

“I’ve met this family once,” Youngjae explained. “My father travelled to this side of the village for… fabrics. He came here for fabrics. This boy… his name… it’s Daehyun. His name’s Daehyun. He’s my age and he showed me around and played with me.”

Silence tore through the air like a harsh wind, then they realized it had never been silent, but Daehyun’s sobs were now mere whispers.

“Go get him,” Yongguk eased Youngjae forward and the younger boy took slow steps towards his crying, old friend.

“Daehyun?” Youngjae called out gently.

In a flash, Daehyun grabbed a nearby knife, blade twisted and rugged, but still deadly. He remained holding his mother’s hand as he glared at Youngjae.

“What do you want?” Daehyun snarled, chest heaving up and down.

“Do you remember me?” Youngjae asked softly.

“What do you want?” Daehyun repeated, louder and even more feral this time.

With much difficulty, Youngjae held back any tears before squatting down to make direct eye contact with the other boy.

“I understand that things are scary right now,” Youngjae choked out. “It’s scary for all of us. But we’re going together to find a safe place, so we won’t have to be scared anymore.”

Daehyun his dry lips and his breathing slowed a bit. Water overflowed and rushed out his eyes in unashamed streaks as his voice, raspy from crying, scratched out the question, “Can… can my mother come with us?”

Youngjae couldn’t stop himself from weeping as he shook his head and rocked back and forth.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could manage through his weeps. Over and over, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

After several minutes of both Daehyun and Yongguk watching Youngjae bawling and needlessly apologizing, Daehyun dropped the knife. He let got of his mother’s clammy hand, stood, and strode over to the crying child, offering his hand. Youngjae accepted it, being helped up. Hand-in-hand, they walked over to Yongguk, looking up at his more mature countenance for something, for guidance.

The tallest, oldest boy wrapped his arms around the other two.

“It’s alright, little brothers,” he comforted. “We’ll make it through this. We’ll be strong. You have to be strong.”

Daehyun listened well as he stared out into the street where a group of kids gathered together, crying and screaming. Teens and pre-teens, walked to the group, with their arms around more crying, screaming kids.  

Bodies of adults lined the road. Adults he knew. Adults he loved and who had loved him, cared for him. A few of his friends even lied lifeless on the sandy Piapi ground, but a lot of them stood with the other kids.

He wasn’t sure what was happening or what reality was. He found himself making wishes he knew wouldn’t come true. He felt like he was gripping for something that wasn’t there.

So, he held onto the powerful voice that rippled through him like the warmth of a fire during the cold Piapi nights. He held onto the words that the voice assured him were true.

“We’ll be strong.”