Last Seven Days

There are no miracles in this story. What hurts still hurts, what is lost is already lost, and what is wrong cannot be corrected. In those last seven days, they learned to allocate a little more of their "desire to die" to "how to live"; they replaced the struggle of "forgetting" with "how to remember more honestly"; they slightly turned the despair of "asking why" to a clumsy attempt of "what to do next". What they built was not an ark or even a dam. Just some temporary, crude, small campfires destined to be washed away by floods. After sitting around for a while, getting some warmth, and seeing clearly the tears on each other's faces, they stood up and walked towards different nights. If this story has warmth, that warmth comes from: After the campfire is extinguished, the slightest, short-lived real warmth remains in the palm of your hand. And, you know, there have been, or will be, the same campfires and the same silent sitting in other places in the world. That's enough.