The Dream
The weight of Rupa's surrender pressed down on Anja, a physical ache in her bones. That night, sleep offered no escape, only a return to a more vivid prison.
She was on the rooftop again. But it was wrong. The sky was the color of a fresh bruise, and the water below was not brown, but the thick, viscous red of the toxic tide. It lapped hungrily at the tiles, higher than ever before, its foul, chemical stench filling her lungs. Sami was beside her, but he was small again, his face pale and feverish, his breath a shallow, rattling whisper. "The water is higher, Anja," he coughed, his voice the one from her nightmares. "You promised."
Then she saw Papa. He was in the water, his face turned up to her, his eyes hollow and pleading. "You have to be strong, little bird," his voice echoed, not from his lips, but from the depths. "You have to be the anchor." But as she reached for him, his form dissolved, and the water itself seemed to pull at her, a cold, heavy hand on her ankle.
She woke with a choked cry, her heart hammering against her ribs. The small, dark dwelling felt as claustrophobic as the rooftop, the silence as profound as the one after the generator had died.
The Anchor
A hand touched her arm, firm and steady, and she flinched violently.
"Anja?"
It was Sami's voice. Not the weak, feverish whisper from the dream, but his new voice—clearer, stronger. In the faint starlight filtering through a crack, she could see his outline. He was no longer the frail child she had carried; he was sitting up, his shoulders straight, his presence a calm, solid anchor in the terrifying dark.
"It was just a dream," he said softly.
"It felt real," she whispered, her own voice trembling. She pulled her knees to her chest, the echoes of the nightmare clinging to her like the damp night air. The crushing weight of responsibility, the fear of failing him, of failing everyone, settled on her again.
"I used to have bad dreams on the roof," Sami said, his voice quiet but sure. "About the water. About being alone." He paused. "You were always there. You always told me it would be okay."
He shifted, and a moment later, he pressed a cup into her hands. It was their shared ration of the filtered water from the Sieve. "You should drink," he said. "You're shaking."
Anja stared at the cup. He was taking care of her. The simple, profound role reversal struck her with the force of a physical blow. For years, her entire existence had been defined by his weakness, by her need to be the strong one, the liar, the protector. Now, in their darkest moment, he was the one offering comfort. He was the anchor.
She took a slow sip of the cool water. It tasted of charcoal and earth, the taste of their own small, defiant victory against the poison. "It's not over, is it?" Sami asked, his voice a low murmur in the dark.
Anja looked at her brother, at the quiet strength in his silhouette. The lies were gone. The false hope was gone. All that was left was the truth, and for the first time, it didn't feel like a weapon against her.
"No," she whispered, the word tasting of clean water and a new, fragile resolve. "It's not over."