Minah and Yun

Things happened so fast. My father did not come back from the fields that day. My mother was frantic and asking a neighbor for help, the pleading slipping into another dialect. I held my baby brother close—he wouldn’t stop crying. As the noise inside swelled, I slipped out back with him in my arms. My dress caught on a low, bare branch as we stepped into the pale winter light beneath the trees.

The yelling grew louder—and then, cutting through it, a man’s voice. The next moment I heard my mom scream as if she was in pain. Instinctively, I ran back towards the sound, noticing that everything had suddenly gone quiet.

The doorway framed a scene I couldn't understand at first: my mom and my neighbor on the floor. She looked up at me but could not form any words. I dropped to my knees, my brother still in my arms. Tears streaked down my cheeks. She blinked a few times, and I took her hand in mine.

I stayed like that—frozen—until her grip faded and my legs went numb.

My brother’s cry pierced through the silence and brought me back to the reality of the situation. I took my brother and hid in the kitchen pantry, wondering if whoever did this would come back for us. Hours later, I was too tired to cry anymore. At some point, I just fell asleep.

A ray of light snuck through the cracks in the pantry door, nudging me awake. The cold, hard floor reminded me of where we had taken refuge. Still cradling my sleeping brother, I nudged the pantry door open with my foot.

My hands were smeared with blood; our faces, streaked with dried drool and snot—we were a mess. I took a moment to change him and wash the grime from my face. I stood in the open doorway, my hand resting on the frame, listening to the profound silence of the village—then finally stepped out.

I started toward the schoolhouse. Up ahead, a tree rustled—faint, but sharp against the stillness.

I heard someone call out.

“Minah.”

I looked up. A boy was perched in an old oak tree, his eyes scanning the village.

“Are they gone?” he asked, his voice tight.

“I think so,” I said quietly. My legs felt unsteady beneath me.

His gaze dropped to the ground. “Did they… did they get your mom?”

The words hit like a stone. My throat tightened, and tears welled up in my eyes. I sank to the ground, unable to answer.

He climbed down, landing softly beside me. He didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, watching me hold my brother and began to cry himself.

After a few moments, I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve and looked at him.

“You think they’re coming back?”

He shook his head, not quite meeting my eyes, his voice wavering. “I don’t think so. They didn’t come after me when I ran. I’ve been up in that tree all night.”

His stomach growled, loud in the silence. He winced.

“I was going to the schoolhouse,” I said. “There might be food there.”

He nodded once. “Okay. Let’s go.”

We didn’t speak much after that. Just walked.

Eventually, we reached the schoolhouse. It sat on the far side of the canal, where the village split—the northern groves where Yun and I lived, and the wheat fields to the south.

“It’s quiet,” Yun said. I nodded. I half-expected to find our teacher still here. He had lived in the back and rarely left. I stepped inside, bracing myself for blood or something worse. But aside from a trail of ants, there was nothing.

The night wind started to pick up, so we went around closing the shutters to keep out the cold. After that, we searched the cupboards and found a few scraps of bread and a jug of Khoa milk. Yun looked at me and asked, “Can Zain have that?”

It had been over a day since my brother had nursed. I didn’t know what else to give him. “I think he’ll be fine,” I said. “He seems to like it.”

We ate quietly—bread and cuts of salted tomato. Outside, the storm whispered. Yun finally broke the silence. “We have to get out of here. Everyone is gone.”

That was easy for him to say. I nodded, too tired to argue. He went on. “I saw them, Minah. There were a bunch of soldiers and mages— like a whole army.”

I spoke up. “Then why leave us? Why take some and not others?”

Yun lowered his eyes. “I saw them take Hani and Sera.”

To us, Hani and Sera were like older siblings. Everyone loved them. Hani was tall and always smiling, and Sera, though quiet, helped the village elders with anything they needed. They’d been with us for years—orphans the village took in.

A cold feeling crept over me. I kept hoping they’d show up. If anyone could fix this, it’d be them.

“My uncle lives in Kirana,” Yun added. “With his wife. If we can find them, maybe they’ll help.”

Kirana—the capital. It was a few days away by carriage. I’d only been once, before Zain was born, on a trip with my father. It felt impossible to reach on our own. But I didn’t say that. I didn’t have anything better to offer.

Yun found a corner and fell asleep. After changing Zain’s diaper, I curled up nearby. The shutters rattled against the wind, their creaking a steady lull until I finally drifted off.

A nightmare yanked me awake, shattered by the sound of soft crying. It came from the other side of the room. Terrified I’d step on my brother, I moved carefully in the dark. When I found him and picked him up, a sliver of light from the shutters caught his face—

And I saw them.

Huge ants, swarming over Zain’s tiny face, crawling in and out of his open mouth.

I shrieked.

Yun bolted upright. “Minah, you oka—?”

“Ants!” I cried, clutching Zain tighter.

His screams shredded the last bit of calm in me. It felt like my soul was falling out of my body.

Yun flung open the shutters, flooding the room with what little moonlight there was. Giant ants scattered across the floor—and now I felt them on me too, biting into my arms and legs.

“Water!” I screamed.

Yun spun, spotted a jug, and rushed it over. I tried pouring it into Zain’s mouth, but he only choked and cried harder.

Yun stomped at the ants, but it was like trying to stop a tide.

I couldn’t take it. I ran—out of the schoolhouse, into the storm—Zain in my arms, ants still clinging to us both.