I was bored all day sitting inside. For someone as athletic as me, confinement is torture—especially after coming all the way to the hills for a vacation.
Ron and Ana seemed perfectly happy reading, hugging, or gazing at each other. I, however, had no romantic partner here and urgently needed to move. After hours of my finest whining, they finally gave in.
The air outside tasted wild.
I sprinted through the grass toward the rocky bottom of the hill. Normally I am very stable and balanced, but today loose gravel betrayed me. I slipped and skidded down the slope—twenty feet, maybe more.
Ron shouted and rushed down to help while Ana followed more carefully, already annoyed that I had complicated the trip.
As we searched for a way back up, we noticed an opening in the hillside. No door, no sign—just darkness breathing out cool air. After a brief debate, they agreed to the adventure, and I was more than happy to take the lead.
Once inside, the light faded quickly. Ron switched on the flashlight of his phone and aimed it down the tunnel.
The beam revealed faded paintings along the walls—hands pressed flat into stone, faces leaning close together, a small figure lifted toward a circle of others. It felt as if the walls had once been a journal for people who lived here long ago.
Deeper inside, the drawings changed. The colors grew muddy, the strokes hurried. A group pressed together behind something that looked like a barricade.
Ana’s voice broke the silence.
“Ron… these aren’t celebrations.”
He moved the light slowly along the wall.
“They’re hiding.”
Further inside, charcoal figures crouched low, their lines tangled like roots gripping the earth.
Ana brushed dust away from a small inscription while Ron read softly, his voice faltering:
“The world is burning, but we want to live.”
Ana read the line below it.
“They will find us one day and stop the oxygen flow.”
Ron pointed to the corner wall.
“Look at those numbers crossed out—a countdown.”
Next to it lay a shallow pit where the bones rested in an open grave.
Ronbir and Anasua stood there a long time, holding hands.
“Will there ever be peace in this part of our world?” Anasua whispered.
Sometimes I can tell when people are remembering something they never lived.
I wondered if the people who tried to stay alive here had a few dogs with them.
Like me.
