Submerged

XI. Fragile like porcelain.

⋅ ⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅ ⊱∘──────────────∘⊰ ⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅ ⋅

   Their journey had already begun some time ago; it felt like an eternity, and the seconds dragged on. They didn't talk much to each other; mostly, it was Antonia who spoke non-stop. Rosadella responded, somewhat dazed by the speed at which the words flowed from her mouth. Nadine only spoke when necessary.

   They walked in a straight line towards Belgium; they had to cross there to get to Amsterdam.

   The first few days, they collapsed in the first shelter at sunset, but when they were halfway to Belgium, they began to stay awake to plan in case they encountered problems there, sleeping in shifts.

   In a lonely meadow covered in dense fog, they found themselves in a small farmhouse surrounded by about twenty more. Only one of them was inhabited, by an old man with a bitter face. He had completely refused to talk to them.

   Each house was identical to the other, but all had been slightly modified, enlarging the kitchen, adding another room, or an exterior terrace to have breakfast in nature. They were about a meter above the ground; it seemed to be an area that used to suffer floods in case of rain since there were no water sources in sight. As they climbed the steps to enter the house, one of the steps broke, trapping one of Rosadella's ankles. It was nothing serious, but it was quite swollen.

   The three were sitting in what had once been a living room. They had only checked the kitchen, dining room, and living room, which were in a common area. There was nothing that could be of use to them. The bedroom doors were jammed, and a strong smell emanated from them, so they gave up trying to open them. The excessively decorated walls, filled with shelves of different porcelain figurines surprisingly intact, and boxes of board games everywhere, created an effect that was both gloomy, nostalgic, and cozy; it was strange. Two sofas faced each other, with a coffee table in the center, where a half-played board game rested. Looking at it caused sadness; you could imagine a family forced to flee their home in the middle of a night of joy.

   Antonia was sitting on one sofa, with both feet on the ground, refusing to rest her back on such repugnance, as she had said. She spoke, tripping over her words as Rosadella and Nadine listened. Rosadella sat cross-legged on the other sofa, looking at Antonia. Nadine was sitting on the armrest next to her, looking out the window into the darkness of the night.

   "You know? I don't think it's necessary for us to avoid being noticed in Belgium," Antonia said, gesticulating wildly with her hands. "Maybe there's someone who could help us and make it easier..."

   "Help with what?" Rosadella interrupted.

   "With your ankle! Girl, look at it," she laughed incredulously.

   "Antonia... by tomorrow, I'll be as good as new. I just twisted my ankle, nothing more."

   They continued talking about the matter while Nadine stood up and approached the glass, placing her hand on it. After observing it for so long, she had noticed that the usual layer of ice hadn't formed, and when she pressed her hand against it, it didn't have that sticky effect anymore.

   "I didn't know my feet were showing." Wilfred said in her mind.

   She moved away from the glass passing in front of the girls, headed to her bag and began rummaging through it.

   "But it hurts, right?" Antonia persisted, looking Rosadella straight in the eyes.

   "Yes, naturally," Rosadella's gaze went from Antonia to Nadine.