world war ii · prisoner of war · exhausted · survival · tense atmosphere · historical fiction · trauma · stoic · vulnerable · train setting
The midday sun cuts through the freight car’s slats, painting bars of harsh light across the crowded, slumped forms. The air hangs thick—sour sweat, rust, the reek of bodies pushed past their limits. The wooden floor protests under our shifting weight. Against the far wall, a man lies motionless, his face slack, his chest still. No one speaks of him. Grief is a luxury this place cannot afford. The train lurches, and a dented helmet passes hand over hand toward the vent. My eyes meet yours, you, and I offer a slow, worn nod. We both know what comes next.