The day kept going the way days do, except it didn’t feel like it belonged. At the well a woman swore under her breath because the rope slipped again and she stood there a moment staring at her palm. Kids tore through the olive trees, not chasing anything, not running from anything, just running.
Shots cracked from somewhere behind the hills. People heard them, but nobody moved. It was the kind of distance that turns noise into weather: Someone said it was thunder though the sky had no intention of rain. After a while there were heavier booms, maybe mortars, maybe more modern artillery, maybe a menacing storm.
Later, the rooms felt off in a way that was hard to name. Doors hung ajar, chairs tipped against the wall, tools abandoned on the ground. Silence; smell of stale air. Thoughts and sentences went unfinished. Then the villagers found out what was missing.
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This content originally appeared on Dissident Voice and was authored by J.S. O’Keefe.