It was twelve noon.
Riven slowly stood up and walked toward the door.
The moment he stepped outside, the harsh sunlight struck his face.
His eyes narrowed; the heat made his whole body feel heavy.
Dry wind carried the smell of dust from every direction—
the unmistakable air of summer,
a scorching, silent, maddening afternoon.
As soon as he reached the road, Riven stopped for a moment.
The village that was once loud and lively
now stood under a strange, unsettling silence.
Tall trees surrounded the area,
empty fields lay open,
the pond water was murky,
and beside the canals stood crooked bamboo huts
with tin roofs sparkling under the sun.
A few brick houses remained—
their walls still stained with burn marks from old flames.
Far ahead stood an old palace.
On its broken roof rested a handful of crows,
as if they too had become witnesses of the war.
The road looked empty,
yet it wasn't completely silent.
In the distance came the sounds of a few vehicles—
sometimes an old-fashioned taxi,
sometimes the tinkling bells of a rickshaw,
and sometimes an old, trembling bus
passing through, kicking up clouds of dust.
A few cars from the 90's still moved—
their bodies fading, paint peeling,
doors rusted—
yet somehow they still ran.
The driver's faces were tired,
the passengers' eyes filled with fear.
As if everyone knew no one was safe on this road,
yet they had to keep going.
There were hardly any people outside.
Those who were, walked quickly with their heads lowered—
fear on their faces, worry in their eyes.
Some worked in the fields,
some took boats into the river,
some pedaled bicycles to someplace unknown.
One man sat on a wooden stool in front of a shop,
staring blankly into empty space.
The ordinary citizens wore simple, practical, thick clothing.
Their clothes were mostly earth-colored—
brown, dark yellow, gray, and olive green.
Men wore simple shirts or tunics,
often long-sleeved,
tied at the waist with a belt.
Below, they wore trousers or hosen,
and on their feet were sturdy leather shoes or boots.
On the left side, a young man worked shirtless with wood—
the attire of a laborer.
Women wore long dresses or gowns,
often covered with aprons or overdresses.
Their heads were wrapped with white cloth caps
that hid their hair.
One woman in front carried a basket,
an apron tied around her—
clearly busy with household chores or market work.
Some people walked wearing long, loose robes with hoods.
Their robes were mostly gray or dark brown—
the traditional attire of monks or scholars.
On the left, an elderly man stood wearing a long robe
and a black cloak,
holding a book in his hand—
a sign of his scholarly or religious status.
Children wore simple tunics reaching their knees,
colored pale blue or green—
far simpler than the clothes of adults.
Most people stayed locked inside their houses—
stepping outside meant risking their lives.
Yet, for survival, some still dared to come out—
because hunger never recognizes war.
As Riven walked further,
the real face of the war appeared.
Four large military jeeps drove past.
Tanks stood positioned on the sides.
Some areas were restricted with barriers—
no one was allowed to enter.
It felt like their base camp.
On the roadside, corpses lay scattered,
the ground stained red with blood.
Burned houses still released smoke,
and the air carried the stench
of charred flesh.
In the river floated bodies—
some burned, some disfigured,
impossible to recognize.
The fish had died;
the river had turned a dark, reddish-black,
as if nature itself had written
its own record of the war.
Bodies of several women hung from tree branches—
stripped,
marked with signs of torture.
Riven turned his eyes away,
but his chest twisted painfully.
This village looked like
a kingdom of death.
Walking further, he saw people
wandering like mad for food.
Their bodies reduced to bare bones,
eyes sunken deep.
Children sat by the roadside,
some holding cracked bowls.
They waited for food—
but no one gave them anything.
Their cries seemed to dry up
in the scorching wind.
In the market, some corrupt merchants
had raised the prices—
a handful of rice,
a drop of oil,
sold like gold.
Doctors did the same—
those without money
had no medicine,
no treatment,
not even the mercy to survive.
I looked up at the sky.
It was still blue,
but even that blue held a smoky shadow.
Birds flew far away,
perhaps searching for safer land.
Everything felt as if the village was alive
yet dead at the same time—
people, animals, vehicles
all still moved,
but no one had a smile,
no one had light in their life.
I was walking along the village road
when suddenly someone called loudly from behind—
"Hey! Riven—Riven…
No, hey! It's me!"