Back at the camp, Clara moved through the quiet, tending to the last of the repairs. The work had been grueling, but it was nearing completion. The tents had been mended, the mess cleaned up, and the refugees, exhausted but grateful, were slowly returning to their makeshift homes. The air was filled with the quiet hum of life, but the tension from earlier lingered in the corners of the camp.

Clara paused to watch one of the older men help a woman carry a bundle of blankets back to her tent. There were no cheers, no applause—just quiet efforts to return to some semblance of normalcy. As she moved through the camp, she saw others starting to rebuild, even though the underlying anger had not gone away.

In the distance, she spotted a few children, their laughter cutting through the stillness as they ran across the freshly repaired tents, oblivious to the weight of the adults’ conversations. Clara watched them for a moment, then turned her gaze to where Amelia’s tent stood, empty.

She knew Amelia wasn’t there, knew she was somewhere wrestling with her thoughts. The decision Amelia had to make was one that Clara couldn’t help with. Clara had been the one holding things together from the outside, but the deeper struggles Amelia faced were hers alone. 

Still, Clara hoped that, somehow, her friend would find a way to navigate the tension, to understand that not every battle could be won and that sometimes, just surviving was enough.

**

As the repairs wrapped up, the camp began to shift from chaos to quiet departure. People gathered their few belongings, some walking with slumped shoulders, others with hesitant glances toward the exit, unsure of what lay ahead. Amelia watched them, her gaze distant as the last of the refugees trickled out, their faces a mixture of relief and exhaustion. 

She directed the remaining workers with efficiency, her tone clipped and devoid of the warmth it once carried. “Check the supply lines before you go. That’s all for now,” she said, not looking back as they started to leave. 

Clara stood a few feet away, watching her closely, "It's all over now. You did well Am."

Amelia simply nodded her head when she looked at the people moving away. A faint worry creasing her brow. “You sure you’re okay?”

Amelia barely turned her head. “I’m fine,” she said, the words curt, final.

***

Amelia sat alone in the quiet of the evening, the letters Clara gave her scattered in front of her. Thanks, gratitude, and well-wishing from the people she had once poured herself into helping. She hadn’t even realized she was holding one until she noticed the neat, handwritten words thanking her for the food and shelter. A cold bitterness crawled up her throat. They don’t get it, she thought. she really thinks a few words will make up for everything.

Her mind flickered back to the days of constant demands, the angry faces, the way they tore through supplies as if it was their right. They’d never been satisfied. Even when things were fixed, they expected more. And yet, here they were, thanking her—pretending to appreciate it all, while their resentment burned quietly behind their smiles.

It’s never enough, she thought, feeling a sharp sting in her chest. They saw her as a tool, a lifeline, not a person. She remembered their harsh words—the accusations that she didn’t know what it was like to lose everything. The way they blamed her family for their misery, expecting her to fix a world that was beyond repair. 

She let her fingers trail over the letter in front of her, but all she could think of was the exhaustion, the endless cycle of giving, and the bitterness that clung to it. 

Without a second thought, she crumpled the paper and tossed it aside. Then another. And another. The stack of letters was growing, but it felt so small now—just words, hollow words that she no longer had the patience to read.

They never cared she thought darkly. They never really cared about anything except what they could get from me.

The resentment had taken root long ago, festering beneath the surface. And now, it had grown into something too big to ignore. She hadn’t realized it at first, but the kindness, the sense of duty that had driven her was eroding away, piece by piece. All the gratitude she had hoped for, all the promises of change, felt empty in the face of all the demands.

She stared at the letters for a long time, her mind clouded with dark thoughts. The faces of the refugees, once in need and desperate for help, now seemed like figures of entitlement—like those who took and never gave back. She had done everything she could. And still, they wanted more.

She stood up abruptly, her hand knocking the stack of letters onto the floor. Without looking back, she turned and walked out, leaving the words of thanks behind—forgotten, discarded. She didn’t need them anymore. The satisfaction that came from helping had long since faded, replaced by something else, something colder.