This is a country ravaged by disease and war.
Poor.
Very poor.
The gathered refugees, listlessly maintaining their livelihoods, their faces long since numbed and weathered, showing not a trace of emotion, not even sorrow has been seen.
Living here, they have long been accustomed to death and poverty.
Thus, in such a place, they can only live like this.
Living just to keep on living.
Not even knowing what the so-called meaning of life is.
In the heap of refugees, there are crying children, elderly infected with diseases, youth missing limbs struggling to survive, and pregnant women who can only brew some grass-root soup without milk.
This is hell.
There's not a hint of vitality.
As the last ray of twilight fades, an armored vehicle slowly drives along the bumpy path, some people glance over, but more choose to ignore it.
Yet—
The armored vehicle, which did not stop, left something behind after it passed.
It was a bag of rice.
