Without a trace

One thinks this is fiction, but no, I lived through it all.

I still feel the smell and the cold that I felt when I entered there.

And from the ashes flowers grew, from the ashes of the dead. I painted a lot of flowers. The white ones first, and then the red ones, and I dreamt that I had this painting in an exhibition and there was a lady asking: ‘Who painted this picture?’ She wanted to know where these flowers grew, where this all happened. She wanted to go and get one of these flowers, perhaps the body of her son was there.

I had that dream and I woke up frightened, remembering the red flower that I painted like a cross. It was the last one that I painted.