The Strength to Go On | Write to Rank 2023

Yellow Belt | You thought we were safe

We sat on cold, shadowed concrete the day you told me. You were sick, and we were hiding. Everything had gone wrong.

There were footsteps upstairs, and a kind, old woman's voice offering them pleasant distractions so they wouldn't find the cellar door haphazardly hidden with a rug. Dust tumbled down from cracks in the floorboards, and smoke still whispered from blown-out candle wicks. We held our breath, damp cloths pressed to our faces to keep us from coughing.

I couldn't see you in the dark, but I could feel your presence warm beside me.

Weeks ago, you helped me walk after the bridge collapse paralyzed my legs. You gave me something to fight for. And, most of all, you gave me something I had lost long ago—a pendant I clutched now to my chest.

Although you've been protecting me from the war ever since, you still never told me your name, and, even now, I don't know what to call you. All I remember of you are your golden eyes, similar to mine, yet so much kinder.

How could I have never known?

The footsteps and voices faded. We took a deep breath, dropping the cloths to our laps. I heard a small thump as you leaned your head back. You must've thought we were safe now.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. Your voice was still hoarse from the cold.

"It's not your fault you're sick." I kept my voice quiet, leaning my head closer to yours. "We can wait and hide here as long as we need. Mrs. Grayson is–"

You turned towards me, sharply, as if you could see through the dark. "That's not what I'm sorry about. I never told you–" You caught yourself and sighed, leaning back against the shelves once more. "No, nevermind."

"What are you talking about?"

Dust shuddered down from above.

We froze, immediately drawing our cloths back over our mouths. But it was too late. They heard us.

"Sir, the rug."

"You've looked everywhere already," Mrs. Grayson's voice echoed down, not giving up. "Don't you think by now that they're not here?"

Combat boots scuffed the floor and a scream pierced through the house. My stomach dropped; my veins turned to ice. I latched onto your arm in desperation. "Tell me now," I insisted. "Before they split us up or–" I didn't want to say the alternative. "You wouldn't have brought it up if it wasn't important."

The rug pulled back. Strips of light illuminated the small quarters. Your eyes stared unflinching at the pendant at my neck—the one my husband made me years ago, before he died. There was a sharp, bone-chilling sound of metal striking metal and the cellar door shuddered with the impact.

You gently peeled my fingers off your arm, pressing yourself to your feet with a grunt, standing between me and the door. A wall, like you always were for me.

Metal snapped—the lock. The cellar swung open.

"My father," you said, "made that pendant."