Aurora 2025 with cover

Kay Shae

Desperate, exhausted, wailing that was so quiet, she almost didn’t hear it from the ringing in her ears. She collapses into the stones of the shop, frantically grabbing and pulling rubble out of the building. The rubble cut deeper into her palms, blood flowing out like a trickling river as she bore through the debris, panicking as she tried to find who was making the noise. “Oh!” she gasps as she cries in relief, reaching into the hole she dug under the shop owner, pulling her exhausted baby out of the debris. “You are okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, you are going to be okay,” words quietly spill out of her mouth as she cries harder with every word. The baby, covered in dirt and fine soot, cries slightly, her tears dried up with how long she had been crying for help. She tucks the baby deep into her kimono, trying to shelter her from the ash and give her warmth. She also thanked the gods one last time for keeping the little one safe, praying that they give her the strength to protect this little soul and provide the same care her mother once did. She pushes forward, hoping to find her father. And maybe escape this nightmare. A bell goes off in the distance, pulling me back to today. The silence is deafening as mementos of my past are displayed: a kimono hanging on a black lacquered kimonokake, brightly lit so the faint patterns of golden cranes can be seen slightly within the dirty, tattered, blood-stained fabric. Photos cycle through, showing the destruction of my city and pictures of a young woman and her parents in front of their ancestry home, with the glints of sunlight reflecting off the main door. A young child, dirty and weathered, cycled through again before showing a well-fed child playing in the grass. The story is unfinished, as this convention has come to its end. In front of me, young adults no older than my mother cry slightly and quietly, wondering what will happen next. A young man in the corner, who was holding his breath, speaks out first, “What happened to the woman and the child? Did they survive?” A melancholy smile crosses my face, filled with mixed

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