It's all one flower.

Forward as long as the road lasts, anyway.

Amiella doesn't think about anything, no, she can't think about anything because of pain and fear, even down the ramp.

There are no signs of people.

The [exorcism] mark is engraved on every few pieces of stone underfoot. There are evergreen shrubs on both sides, but branches don't stick out on the road. Until recently, people had their hands in it.

I don't have the courage to turn around.

Only the sound of Amiella's shoes echoes on the road where people's hands came in.

I dragged my painful body and saw something farsighted like a private home about how long I had walked.

Soon the sun will tilt and the sky will stain dusk.

Potsung and private houses are built in the wild.

The surroundings seem to be fields. Regularly lined little greens shake in the winter breeze.

The needle Amiella remembered a long time ago the day the manager took her to deliver to the farmers of the Autonomous Region.

The cozy wind of early summer rocked the wheat ear. The merchandise was a bridesmaid costume and was taken to the last resize.

The face of the bride's daughter, the burning barracks city, the golden wheat fields, the grandmother who goes down the mountain path, the calm sun radiation, the countless eyes peeking from the decaying roof, the meals served at the farmhouse, the anxious faces of the people illuminated by the flames, the smiles of the family praising the bride who tried them on, the flat faces resembling the demonic frogs that chase Amiella...... the memories of the days of peace and the crisis that has fled (of) disappear in my mind without context.

Every time you take a step forward, your left arm is in pain. The cut lips become swollen, the pottery and blood drip, and the chest is contaminated. The coat and trousers were coated with mud, and the leaves were stuck.

... where it's torn, I need to fix it. The manager scolds me for not being properly fit.

Look at the hem of your pants (soaking) and keep walking thinking about that blurry.

My knees, shoulders, flanks, and cheeks hurt every time I put my foot down on the ground.

When I noticed, both sides of the road were wheat fields. No one works in the field. Freshly sprouted wheat withstands the February cold.

The far-sighted private house is a fairly large farmhouse. The windows gleam back to the day they began to tilt.

The bird's voice echoed in the sky and flowed into the wind.

Amiella squeezes her strength and moves her heavy body forward.

In a hazy consciousness, he moved his legs mechanically and reached the gate.

Already the sun falls and the thin shadow of Amiela stretches long.

The walls of stone are high, and every place is engraved with the same [exorcism] marks as the mountain path. The gate was shut tight, and there was no voice.

Even if people are there, there is no guarantee that they will help Amiela, the powerless people.

I don't know when the bomb will be dropped, even if it spares air raids now.

This is the time.

Only the luggage will be taken away and likely thrown out. If the inhabitants were wizards, they might have taken refuge somewhere far away in safety.

Still, there was no one else to ask for help but here.

Suspended a slight desire, Amiela opened her mouth.

…………

I don't have a voice. The mouth dries to a crisp, tongue tense.

The bleeding of the lips stops and the red and black mass creaks up to the jaw.

Knock on the gate with your right hand.

The sound of knocking on a metal reinforced wooden door echoes the broken left arm. The pain pulses and causes fever.

Power fell out of her knees and Amiela collapsed in front of the gate.