The shelter wasn't much, but it was dry.
Lena sat on the edge of a thin mattress tucked into the corner of a crowded room. The air smelled like sweat and damp clothes, and the low hum of exhausted voices filled the space. People moved around her—some slow and quiet, others with the numb urgency of survival—but Lena barely noticed.
She kept her eyes on the floor. The storm was gone, but its weight still pressed down on her chest.
A volunteer passed by and offered her a bowl of something warm. She took it with a nod, murmured a thank you, and stared into the porridge as if it might explain what came next. Her stomach churned, appetite dulled by grief and shock. Still, she forced down a few bites. Just enough to keep going.
She didn't want to just exist. Not like this.
By mid-morning, the shelter had fully come to life. Children chattered. Someone argued quietly over a blanket. A radio in the hallway played fuzzy music that didn't quite reach her ears. Lena stood up and wandered, needing to move.
She walked slowly through the shelter's narrow corridors, past makeshift sleeping areas and taped-up windows. Every face she passed told its own story—red-rimmed eyes, forced smiles, people trying to make the best of what little they had. Some offered her a glance, a nod. Most kept to themselves.
In a corner of the dining area, a few people sat together, talking in low voices. Lena hesitated, then approached.
"Hi," she said, voice dry but steady. "I'm Lena. I lost my family in the storm."
There was a pause. Then one of them—a woman with frizzy hair and a kind face—shifted over to make room. "We all lost someone," she said. "You can sit if you want."
Lena did. They didn't ask questions. They just talked. Small things at first—where they'd come from, what they remembered, what they missed. Nobody cried. They didn't need to. The silence between words said enough.
It felt strange, sharing space with people who knew the same kind of pain. But it helped. Just a little.
By late afternoon, though, the restlessness returned. Sitting still made her feel stuck. Powerless.
She found Sarah—the volunteer who'd brought her food earlier—stacking supplies in the back room.
"Can I talk to you?" Lena asked.
Sarah looked up, wiping her hands on her pants. "Of course."
"I don't want to stay here forever," Lena said. "I know this place is safe, but I need to… I need to find a way to stand on my own."
Sarah didn't answer right away. She studied Lena's face, her posture. Finally, she nodded.
"That's a hard thing to ask. And a brave one."
"I'm not expecting it to be easy," Lena said. "But I want to try. I have to."
Sarah smiled gently. "Then let's start with what you'll need."
The next few days were different. Lena helped where she could—serving meals, sorting donations, asking questions about survival. Sarah taught her things in pieces: how to purify water, how to patch torn clothes, how to recognize when someone was dangerous without making it obvious.
It wasn't much. But it was a beginning.
Each day, Lena felt a little less like a ghost. A little more like someone rebuilding from the ruins.
She still carried the weight of what she'd lost. That wasn't going anywhere. But she wasn't drifting anymore.
She was moving—slowly, painfully—toward something that felt like hope.