The northern border of the capital had never been so crowded.
For several days, people had been arriving from villages destroyed by floods, drought, famine, and war.
Some carried bundles on their backs.
Some pushed wooden carts.
Some walked barefoot.
Some carried children who were too weak to walk.
Others had nothing except the clothes on their bodies.
The capital had become a temporary stopping point for thousands of displaced families hoping to continue northward.
The northern lands were still fertile.
There were rivers.
Open fields.
Abandoned villages that could be rebuilt.
The government had therefore opened a migration route for common people willing to settle there.
At the migration counter, officials worked from sunrise until sunset.
Names were recorded.
Families were questioned.
Documents were checked.
Those who qualified received a migration slip allowing them to travel north under government protection.
That morning, the line seemed endless.
