They come at night, they kill, they retreat. We stay under our beds, praying. Many hours later, our uncle opens the door. The street is empty. The next door neighbour's door bangs opened with the wind. Half the street is dead.
A young woman in a foreign country seats on a sturdy chair.
The view of the mountains: she cannot get use to them; she misses the flatness
of her land. The phone rings, a male voice ask for her. Her spine creaks, she
remembers. She breathes, hangs up and walks to the mountains.