It has grown cold here. And dark. I try so hard to tune out my senses, but they always seem to come back, nagging away at me like unanswered prayers.
I am hungry.
I am tired.
I am lonely.
I hear others shuffling around sometimes – muffled grunts of pain and dirtied rags trailing along the floor. It does not matter whose. It does not even matter who is left.
My fire is small, scarcely more than a candle, but I nurture it as though it were the Sun. I dare not add more kindling, though there is nothing else around me but ruins. I do not want the others to see. They will take my tiny flame, try to steal it for themselves, and they will fight and squabble over it until they are simply fighting over ash.
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