Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

The first light seeps weakly through the cracks in the shutters, pale and gray. You sit on the edge of your narrow bed, listening to the distant tolling of church bells, each one counting the dead in your city. Outside, the city hums softly with coughs, whispers, and the scraping of carts on cobblestone. You know you will be part of that rhythm today, walking among life and death.