The sun cast a golden sheen across Anna's shoulders as she pinned damp clothes to the sagging line that stretched between two crooked poles. The scent of soap and summer air mingled around her, and the washboard bucket sloshed gently at her feet. She wiped a strand of hair from her brow with the back of her wrist, then turned at the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel.
Dan stood there, his shoulders slumped, his factory boots coated in dust. His face was pale, eyes hollow.
"You're home early," Anna said, her voice tight with surprise. Her hands froze mid-motion, a wet sock dangling from her fingers.
Dan looked down, then met her gaze. "I was let go."
Her mouth dropped open. "Why?"
"They said I'm not needed anymore. The machines—they're doing the work faster. Cheaper."
Anna's heart sank. "But your job… the insurance. You've got diabetes, Dan."
"I know." He rubbed his temples. "I'll ration the insulin. Stretch it out. Just until I find something else." Dan entered the house.
Dan trudged inside, peeling off his work clothes with slow, tired movements. He pulled on his worn pyjamas, the fabric thinning at the elbows, and collapsed onto the mattress beside the window.
Anna stepped into the dusk, unpinning clothes with her jaw tightened. The machines had replaced her husband—soulless things with steel arms and blinking lights. They didn't tire, bleed, or need insulin.
Her fingers trembled as she yanked a shirt from the line, the cloth snapping in the air like a whip. Rage simmered beneath her skin, hot and silent.
Intermarium was a bleak country where the rich were as rare as four-leaf clovers, and hope was rationed like medicine. And they were running out of hope.