A Record Of Delia's War -

Tonight I found a child. Three years old. Wandering near the old tram depot. No name. No note. Just a stuffed rabbit with one ear. I carried her for six hours until an old man said he knew her grandmother. The grandmother was dead. But the neighbor took her anyway.

Delia Rojas was thirty-two years old when the Uprising of the Consolidated Blocs began. She was not a soldier. She was a librarian. And when the bombs fell on the Meridian Library, she picked up a broken radio, a pistol she did not know how to use, and a waterproof ledger book. She called her project A Record of Delia’s War —not out of ego, but out of the desperate need to put her name on something that would survive her.

There is a gap. From 5:47 to 5:52. That’s when the girl—she says her name is Lin, she is fourteen—slips across the plaza to the medical cache. a record of delia's war

Signing off. Delia Rojas, Archivist of the Ashes.” The metal box was found in 2189 during the reconstruction of the Meridian Cultural District. The oak tree had grown around it. Inside: the ledger, the children’s book Goodnight Moon , and a rusty spoon with a bent handle.

I will put this ledger in a metal box. I will bury it under the oak tree behind the ruined library. Maybe someone digs it up. Maybe no one does. Tonight I found a child

Delia’s war is not glory. Delia’s war is carrying a child through a city that wants her dead.” “Lin is gone. Not dead—I don’t think. Taken. A Bloc patrol kicked in our hideout door at 4 AM. They wanted the radio. Lin threw it out the window before they could grab it. Smashed on the pavement. But they didn’t know that.

I have written 847 pages. Some are soaked in rain. Some in blood. One in coffee—that was an accident. No name

I sat in a stairwell afterward and cried until I threw up. Then I ate a cold potato. Then I wrote this.