The door was ajar. The last person left must have forgotten to close it properly. Or did not bother to close it. There was nothing inside the room. Only some old piles of newspapers. It smelt stale. There was an old curtain hanging on one window. The curtain was old too, discolored and torn. There was also an old bottle with a money plant. The money plant was the only living thing in the room. Bright green leaves with a tinge of yellow. It moved in the warm breeze, greeting the stranger.
The utensils in the kitchen were once washed nicely but they were dusty now. There was a bedroom inside. The once white walls were now covered with paintings of a young untrained hand. House, tree, animals were drawn using pastel colors. There were more piles of paper, a drawing book, and a broken toy. The drawing book had the name of the owner. I tried to imagine her face: small, roundish with big bright eyes. Big frightened eyes, unable to make out why they had to leave. Unable to understand why mother cried when the truck started, and father's face darkened. They had to leave in a hurry. They were told that this house, this place was not safe anymore. The rebellion had been ended and the others were coming to take over. People with big boots, olive green shirts were coming to take over whatever was left of the old, weary, hungry people. So they fled.
The war had ended. Peace reigned. Only a small girl with her big bright eyes could not understand why she could not take her drawing book with her to the place she was going to. There would be no school, nobody told her that. Probably no walls for her to paint on. Nobody told her anything.
Because they knew nothing.
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