She walks to the front of the room. Eyes bring warmth to her back as she walks in between the groups. Soli rubs the papers between her fingers, feeling the dry fibers on her skin. Moisture arises on her palms. The carpet is speckled with hues of reds and blues. 

A small wooden stage sits in front of the groups. Just a small step with only room for one. Soli didn’t feel like she’s just one. The weight she’s been carrying is enough for a small village. The pressure from herself out weighs the weight from the groups of people sitting in the room. The step up feels like summiting a mountain, but will only a small pass on the side of the cliff. 

He is white, One of the men staring. She clears her throat. This isn’t just about speaking, this is about building and representing, this isn’t about her. It’s about the ones that were silent. The weight upon her back grows heavier. 

The lights in the room all pointed to her, but when she looked at that man his eyes were shaded by the light reflection in his glasses. He would be able to hide after this. He looked like everyone else in the room. Soli stood out. She is a woman, and she is not of white skin. 

She starts to speak. With the flow in the room, her brain masks everything with silence. There isn’t anything that she could comprehend within the stares or the whispers among them. Soli read the list that was on the bottom of the paper. She read a list of names. People deceased. Gone. 

“Was there survivors?”

No.