War

           And as the sun kept setting on the west, the winds tore away the last bit of smokes from the dying chimneys. And the deserted streets had orchestrated nothingness spread all over themselves, waiting for that one man only. And he kept running. Running through the town, and all the dreams living inside its stomach, being in a hibernation. The evening creept in, and the wind blew harder, and the ominous siesta continued like a hum of the faraway engines at work. He ran up the stairs of a seemingly deserted building. Empty buckets, dusty garbage rugs, and the toothed stairs sitting there, waiting for him. And he ran up the stairs. He reached the 6th floor, and banged open the only door standing. A white figure, in whites, lay there, tired, maybe asleep.

"You came back." She stated.
"Yes. Where are they?"
"They left, long ago."
"Who were they?"
"Does it matter?"
"Doesn't it?"
"Not anymore."
     
               He moved to her side, and running a hand over the bulging stomach, he said, "Yes. It doesn't, not anymore."