Ephemeral

Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Sharing the Stories** 
Lariam

The sun dips low behind the trees, casting long shadows across the clearing. It's almost evening, and the sky is a mix of orange and pink. We’re camping out in the woods, and there’s a small fire crackling in front of us. The flames dance and flicker, sending tiny sparks into the cool evening air. The smell of smoke and pine fills my nose, mingling with the sweet scent of melting chocolate.

I’m sitting on a log, feeling the rough bark against my hands, watching Jack as he pokes at the fire with a stick. A marshmallow on the end of it slowly browns, turning golden and crispy. He looks deep in thought, his brow furrowed, lips pressed together like he’s trying to figure something out. The rest of us—Lena, Marcus, and I—are waiting, quiet, just watching him. We each have our own marshmallows on sticks, slowly turning them over the fire.

Finally, Jack looks up. His face is lit by the firelight, his eyes bright. "I found something," he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Something in my tutor’s mother’s diaries.”

Marcus leans forward, curious. “What kind of something?” he asks, picking at a twig and then carefully sliding a hot marshmallow onto a graham cracker with chocolate. Lena and I exchange a glance. Jack’s tutor, Mrs. Delgado, is nice but strict, always with a serious face. I can’t imagine her having anything interesting in her life, let alone her mother.

Jack takes a deep breath and looks around at us, then back at the fire. He carefully pulls his marshmallow off the stick and presses it between two graham crackers with a piece of chocolate, squishing it so that the marshmallow oozes out the sides. “Her mother kept these diaries. Wrote about her life during the war. Some of it’s pretty...intense.” He pauses, like he’s trying to find the right words. “She talked about things I didn’t know about. Things people don’t usually talk about.”

I shift on the log, feeling a mix of curiosity and unease. “Like what?” I ask, keeping my voice low. The woods are quiet now, only the sound of the fire popping. I take a bite of my s’more, the marshmallow sticky on my lips.

Jack glances at me, then looks down at his hands. “About hiding. About running from soldiers. About...people who helped her and those who didn’t.” He stops, eyes fixed on the fire. “She mentioned some of the awful things she saw, but also the small, good things. The little moments of kindness.”

Lena wraps her arms around her knees, drawing them close to her chest, her s’more forgotten. “Wow,” she says softly. “I can’t imagine living through that. It’s so...different from what we know.”

Jack nods, still staring at the flames. “Yeah. It made me think. About how much people went through back then. How much they lost. And how, even in all that darkness, they tried to find light.” He looks up at us again, his expression serious. “It made me realize how important it is to remember those stories. To learn from them.”

I feel a chill run down my spine, despite the warmth of the fire. Jack’s right. We’re lucky to be here, sitting around a campfire, with no worries except for the occasional mosquito bite. I think about Mrs. Delgado, about how she never talks about her family. I wonder if she’s ever read those diaries herself, or if it’s too painful.

Marcus clears his throat, breaking the silence. “Do you remember any specific stories? Like, ones that stood out?”

Jack nods slowly, his eyes looking far away. "There was one story about a family that almost hid another whole family with them," he says quietly. "They barely had enough food or space, but they wanted to help so badly. The mother kept smiling and saying, 'If we just had a little more, we could save them, too.' Even though they were afraid and struggling, they did all they could. They made her feel like she was part of their family, giving her safety and love when no one else could.”

Lena wipes her eyes, blinking back tears. “That’s...beautiful,” she says, her voice choked. “It’s so amazing how people can be so good, even in the worst times.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah, it really is.” I look at Jack, feeling a surge of respect for him. For finding these stories, for sharing them with us. It’s like we’re all connected now, not just to each other, but to those people in the past. To Mrs. Delgado’s mother and that family. To all the people who fought to survive and to help others.

Jack smiles, a small, sad smile. “I’m glad I found those diaries,” he says quietly. “It’s like...they’re not just stories. They’re pieces of who we are, of what we can be.”

The fire crackles, and a soft breeze rustles the leaves above us. For a moment, none of us speak. We just sit there, letting the stories sink in, feeling the weight of them, the truth of them. I know I’ll remember this night, this moment, for a long time. And I hope I can carry these stories with me, to remind me of what really matters.

As the last light of day fades away and the stars begin to peek out, I feel a sense of calm. A sense of gratitude. For my friends, for these stories, for this moment. I take a deep breath, the cool night air filling my lungs, and I close my eyes, letting the peace of the evening wash over me.