A grey-dawn like an old bedsheet crumpled and smoothed out over and over again spread across the roofs of the Northern refugee camp. Samira pulled her face deeper into her hoodie; the cold smells of wet mud, disinfectant, and diesel still pricked her nose. *Day two hundred thirty-seven. Day seventy-seven*—she recited the numbers in her mind like a prayer. Outside the wire fence, the morning mist was thinning. The watchtower lights hadn't yet been extinguished, but they couldn't illuminate the sudden ripple that disturbed the puddle at her feet.
That ripple wasn't the wind. Wind has no scent, no sound. Yet she smelled it—charred wood mixed with orange blossom, the scent that clung to her mother's hair after she last lit the stove in their kitchen. Then, she heard her brother's voice, as if rising from deep water, just one sentence: "Sister, I'm cold."
Samira whirled around. Her reflection stared back from the puddle, but now a small hand grasped the leg of her trousers. The reflection had no hand. She crouched down, her fingertips brushing the icy water. The ripples shattered instantly, and the scent of her mother's charred wood was swiftly washed away by the disinfectant. The people around her were still queuing for breakfast; no one looked up.
The pounding of her heart felt loud enough for the whole camp to hear. She thrust her hand into her pocket, finding the little wooden bird wrapped in old bandages—the toy Karim had shoved into her hand at the last moment. Beneath the bandage, one wing of the bird was broken, yet it was trembling, straining to break free from her palm.
"Dreaming again?" came a voice in stiff English from behind her. Lena stood there holding two cups of instant cocoa, thin wisps of steam curling from the rims. She was the youngest volunteer here, her blonde ponytail always escaping the edges of her Red Cross cap like an untimely ray of sunshine.
Samira shook her head, offering no explanation. Explanations only led to more forms and more doctors. She took the cup, pressing her lips to the paper rim, only to hear another voice—this time closer, more urgent, like a child's footsteps running down a hallway— "They locked me in… behind the iron door…"
Iron door. There *was* indeed a row of abandoned shipping containers behind the camp, once a temporary clinic, now locked, the key hanging from a guard's belt. Samira's fingers unconsciously tightened; the wooden bird gave an almost imperceptible crack in her fist.
Lena followed her gaze and frowned. "There's nothing there, Samira."
"Echoes," she murmured in Arabic, because English didn't have the right word.
Before the word fully settled, the coughing rumble of a diesel engine sounded in the distance. An unmarked black van lurched through a puddle, splattering mud onto Lena's boots. Its windows were tinted dark, hiding the interior. The camp's dogs suddenly fell silent.
Samira took half a step back; the wooden bird felt like it would pierce her skin. She remembered this kind of vehicle—three days ago, a Sudanese boy who constantly talked to himself was led into a similar van and hadn't returned. The nurses said he'd been "transferred," but the boy's blanket still hung on the clothesline like a faded flag.
The engine noise drowned out Karim's voice, but it couldn't drown out the scent of burnt orange blossom. It grew thicker, stronger, as if someone had rammed an entire burning tree down her throat. Samira turned and ran. Her hood slipped back, revealing her unevenly cropped black hair. Lena called after her, her voice shredded by the engine's roar.
She wove through the narrow paths between tents, muddy water splashing her calves, her heartbeat accelerating in time with her footsteps. The containers were fifty meters away, their rust-streaked doors secured by a shiny new brass lock. The scent of charred wood abruptly vanished, replaced by the stinging cold of disinfectant.
Samira stopped three paces from the iron door, cold sweat slicking her palm. The wooden bird stopped trembling, as quiet as death.
Then, she heard it—a faint *click* from the lock, as if someone inside had turned the key for her.