Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

A pile of tarnished paper, lying on an oak desk.

Tick.

A broken window, stained by years of mold.

Tick.

A decrepit house, long forgotten.

Tick.

A makeshift shelter, occupied for 9 hours.

Tick.

A young girl, sitting in a rusted chair.

Tick.

A still glistening eye, tired bags supporting it.

Tick.

An older woman, asleep on the floor.

Tick.

An older man lying dead in the dirt, 14 hours back.

Tick.

A younger boy, restless yet silent on the couch.

Tick.

A young girl, vacantly walking outside.

Tick.

War sirens blaring, 51 hours back.

Tick.

A young girl, curled up on the ground.

Tick.

A city at peace, on the distant horizon.

Tick.

A young girl, weary eyes clenched shut.

Tick.

Twelve long miles of dirt road, separating house and shelter.

Tick.

A young girl, wide eyes entreating the sky.

Tick.

A young girl, quickly sitting upright.

Tick.

A house awoken by a small, commanding voice.

Tick.

A young girl, steady heart leading the way.

Tick.

A younger boy and an older woman, in followed footsteps.

Tick.

A torn family's march forward, against the harsh wind.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

A resilient family, striding through the gates.

Tick.

A father's last words, taken to hearts.

Tick.

A man able to rest in peace.