I sat in a stairwell afterward and cried until I threw up. Then I ate a cold potato. Then I wrote this.
We didn’t rescue her. She escaped. Walked twenty miles through a marsh at night. Killed a Bloc sentry with a sharpened spoon—I am not joking. She showed me the spoon. a record of delia's war
They took her instead. Dragged her by the hair. She didn’t scream. She looked at me and mouthed: ‘Keep writing.’ I sat in a stairwell afterward and cried until I threw up
I don’t know how to fight. But I know how to keep a record. Someone should remember which streets still have water. Which rooftops have a view of the Bloc checkpoints. Which alleys smell like gas leaks. We didn’t rescue her
What follows are selected entries. They have been lightly edited for clarity, but the roughness—the fear, the hunger, the fury—remains. “The shelf is still warm. Not from sunlight. From the fire two blocks away. I’m sitting in the children’s section—or what’s left of it. ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ is ash. But ‘Goodnight Moon’ survived. I’m holding it. That feels like a sign.