Living in What Was Left
The workshop did not feel like a place people lived.
It felt like a place things were stored and forgotten.
The metal shutter groaned every time it moved. The air smelled of rust, oil, and dust that had settled into the walls over years. This land had once been Mr. Arlen's dream for business expansion — a sign of growth, of future plans.
Now it was shelter.
And barely that.
The "room" they stayed in wasn't even a real room. It was a space carved out of the workshop using old plywood boards nailed into place. One side measured seven by eight feet. The other, slightly bigger part, was ten by eight feet. Together, it was still not enough space for five people to live.
People who once had their own rooms now had to learn how to exist within arm's reach of one another.
Inside, there was one narrow single bed with one leg slightly shorter than the others, which made noise due to old woods . Against the wall stood a broken rack, its shelves bent downward in the middle, as if even it had given up holding weight.
There was no sunlight.
The small window was useless, blocked by another building wall outside. Morning and evening looked the same. They had to keep a bulb switched on all the time — day and night — because darkness sat inside the room even at noon.
The workshop had a well.
But the water was dirty.
It could only be used for the toilet. For everything else — bathing, cooking, washing clothes — water had to be bought and carried in a large container. Every drop had value.
Even washing clothes became difficult. There was barely space to move, let alone dry them. Wet clothes hung on ropes across the room, brushing against faces, books, and walls. The air felt damp and heavy.
And then there was the clock.
An old workshop clock hung outside the partition. It did not just tick quietly — it announced time. Every hour, it struck the number of the hour.
At midnight, it rang twelve times.
At 3 a.m., three times.
Each echo cut through the silence like a reminder: time was moving, but their situation was not.
These were the unfamiliar things that stole Semina's peace.
The first night, they didn't even know how to sleep.
Mrs. Arlen sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall like it might explain how life had turned inside out in less than 48 hours. Mr. Arlen spread a thin sheet on the floor, pretending it didn't matter, pretending it was temporary.
Semina lay awake, staring at the plywood ceiling.
Every sound felt louder here. Dogs barking outside. Vehicles passing. Metal creaking. The clock striking.
This was not a home.
It was survival.
Days turned into a strange routine. Water had to be managed. Food bought in small amounts. Cooking happened on clay stove with the help of woods on the floor. Sometimes meals were skipped without discussion.
Mr. Arlen left early each morning, returning later each day, carrying worries he never spoke aloud.
Mrs. Arlen tried to keep things "normal," but normal had been left behind with the house keys.
And Semina…
Semina stopped being sixteen.
Her laughter, which had only recently begun returning to her life, disappeared again. Her smile felt like it belonged to someone else.
At school, teachers spoke. Lessons continued. Exams were announced.
But her mind stayed inside that divided room.
She worried about money. About her parents' silence. About how long they could live like this. She opened books but words did not stay. Pages turned without memory.
Even Paul…
Even the person who once made her feel seen…
Her heart closed.
Not because she stopped caring. But because survival had taken all the space where feelings once lived. Hope felt risky. Smiling felt dishonest.
Weeks became months.
Months began shaping years.
Inside that cramped room without sunlight, childhood quietly left her life.
And in its place grew something quieter, harder, and far more tired.