The city used to be the loveliest place I know. I grew up seeing the colorful facades of the houses, and watching the beautiful sunsets by the river. Other times, I met friends by the topmost floor of the broken-down house. Then we'd watch the city wake up with the sunrise by the east.

Up there, you'd hear the river at the edge of town. It flowed endlessly towards the foot of the hills and disappears without preamble. Sometimes, I’d go there with my brothers and fish for dinner. I remember them saying how much better the food was whenever we catch them by ourselves. Other times, we’d pick fruits by the lines of trees. Then we’d run back home in a noisy crowd screaming excitedly for the rest of the family.

But these are things of the past. And it hurts so much to remember my older brothers. Seeing their smiling faces brings back the memory of their funeral, held even without their bodies because by the way things go about these days, the one reason you’d know if your family is still alive is to not know at all. You can survive just by believing that somewhere, someplace else, they are still breathing and walking and not blown up to pieces in a war they never foresaw.

It’s just that one quiet afternoon, amidst all the smoke and rubble, I saw a man in crisp uniform headed towards our humble home. He looked down on the ground the entire time, only looking up to me once he found my doorstep.

That was how I knew that they had died.

I didn’t cry. It was inevitable. But I felt the strength in my legs get sapped out of me with every word, and a few of the last strings of my life come undone as I watch the officer walk away with nothing more than a nod and a sad announcement.

I sat in one of the chairs in the kitchen, my elbows on my knees, afraid that my body will fall out of its hinges and disappear like most of my beloved family. Like that, with only a few words, the only ones left in my life were my younger brother and this broken down house.

He stood far from me, not entirely understanding the weight that just fell on my shoulders. He stayed by the stairs half-hiding in the railings. But eventually, I heard his light footsteps come nearer, the sagging platforms hardly taking his weight. Then without a word, I felt his hands slide around my shoulders and his head beside mine.

In that simple and silent exchange, I felt a slight ease in my chest. And I saw the face of the only one left I could protect. I decided that I’ll always keep him close to me. And then, hopefully, we’d survive this war together.

Although, everyday seems like a war we needed to survive. That it isn’t just one big mess everybody is dealing with but small and painful pieces that aggravated our very lives to its end. It isn’t just avoiding bombed-out holes in the streets, or collapsing structures that once held the very life of the city, but also finding the resources we needed to sustain ourselves.

The streets that used to be filled with laughing children and chattering adults over coffee are nothing but rubble and sullen faces. You’d see people looking at the ground, much like the officer who told me everyone had died, or looking up the sky and cursing this forsaken world that they had no choice but to live in. There would be some looking up to their houses and grieving for all the memories they have lost in the fire. While the rest are slumped in defeat by their doorsteps with nothing but the foundations of their homes left.

But despite that, as I trod on towards the only store left, I’m still able to see a few kids trying to forget the cruel world they are growing up in. They run around the debris watching the ashes swirl around their feet, jumping off from fallen crossbeams, then disappearing into the next alleyway with the rest of their friends.

And even then, I find myself smiling sheepishly while listening to their voices echoing through this wasteland. I imagine my last living family laughing the way they do, even quietly. I’d give anything to hear that again, that bright laughter, and perhaps somehow, it can tell me that it would be okay, that everything would turn out fine for the two of us.

I even find myself laughing when I hear one of them crying. It reminds me of the sounds of our youth, when we cried over stupid things we couldn’t have or because we scratched our knees playing too hard in a place we shouldn’t be. And I think, it should be the things children cry for, not blood, a lost love one, or the sound before bombs start falling.

Which I realize is the sound of crying I mistook for a kid. The high-pitched siren picks up in volume as if it’s chasing me down the street. Somewhere mixed in it is the bass of the bombs exploding in the distance like a strange orchestra. My heart picks up with its pace, and the next thing I know is that my feet are swiftly carrying me with its rhythm towards a home I fear would be the next one to be destroyed.

I tread through a river of panicked denizens running for the shelter. But they’ve experienced it so many times that it almost looks so normal. Some don’t even bother with their suitcases, just focused themselves with finding safety. The others run with one hand around their meager belongings, and the other resting around the shoulder of a loved one, awkwardly pulling them along, afraid they’d get separated in this mess.

I look at all of them in the eyes, even though none of them returns my gaze. I check to see if one of the faces moving so quickly in the other direction is my brother. Because it wouldn’t do us any good if we missed each other and for a solemn promise I made to myself and in front of the graves of the rest of my family.

The bombs start falling closer and I can hear what is left of this city go down in a sad, cascading memory. The rubble may have caught another life, but I try not to imagine another dead person because every time I’m reminded of this cruel world, I only see my brother’s face. And I fear I would never get to hear that quiet voice calling back to me, even through the screams of the enemy fighter planes dropping the ending at our doorsteps.

But then I do, just one frightened voice amidst the chaos. I run faster, willing myself through the exhaustion I’m beginning to feel, just to see one lovely face that would keep reminding me that I could get through this, that we’ll get through this.

I see him running aimlessly by the next turn, a few ways from our house. And I can see a small piece of paper in his hand, out of all the things he can carry with him. I can feel my heart sink from the relief of seeing him and the grief from seeing the red sky over the fields where our house used to be. It’s one less thing that belonged to us along the rest that is already lost. But at least, he’s there.

I pull him in a tight embrace and begin dragging the two of us towards the nearest shelter entrance. I feel him shaking under my arm, but he powers through it and carries his own weight until we collapse in a heap deep underground.

The bombs continue falling over the city in bass notes that would forever haunt my ears. Though, I can hardly fathom what else is there to be lost. The shelter is filled with war-struck faces and grieving faces and I don’t know what else, but death keeps on coming to us like rain. We sit there, huddled with what is left that we can call life, not being able to do anything but listen to the successive explosions that plague our homes.

I can feel the earth shake with each one, and the stitch in my heart. Dust lightly falls over our heads. Under my arm, I can feel the fear from my brother. He’s shaking more violently than before. And not once, I can almost hear his whimpering between the booming sound overhead. Though his isn’t the only voice I can hear.

In this tunnel, there must be hundreds of civilians taking cover from the raid. That’s how many people are displaced in this town of ours because of this war. I can hear them, talking in these hushed voices, whispering that it’s going to be okay to the one they love, or perhaps praying to the one god they know. The other voices sound like they are wondering what is happening up there. And I realize how this run-down shelter might have felt closer to home than awaits them out there once this is all over.

I start humming a tune I know so well. In my memory, there is a middle-aged woman holding me in her arms, rocking me softly with each note she sings. In there, the sky is orange. But I don’t smell fire nor do I see or hear the symptoms of war. In there, everything is where they are supposed to be - at peace.

My voice echoes all over the shelter. I can feel eyes turning to find whose voice it is, singing this calming tune of autumn. In the dark, they probably couldn’t see me but I hum louder over the screams outside so they can hear me.

In my mind, the picture changes to that of a garden. It’s the garden that used to be alive outside of our house. There’s nothing left of it now, but I don’t see it like that. I see my own mother and my little brother sitting by the tulips. She has him on her lap, humming the same tune I’m singing. She places her hand on his head, fixing his hair with her fingers. She points at the flowers, and tells him how beautiful they all are.

She tells him how beautiful we all are.

I look at my brother and think how I believe that he - a boy covering his ears with his hands and keeping his eyes shut to the world - can tell me that we would all be fine and survive to see the sunrise the next day. And I don’t doubt it in any way.

I hold him tighter in my arms. I sing - not for the rest of the world, and the rest of the people in this shelter - but for us. For him. I just know that whatever is waiting outside, I’d always be coming home.

Later, when the air raid is over and everyone is asleep, I discover that the small piece of paper he’s holding is a photo of us with the rest of our family.