The sound of typewriters echoed in my ears. Few remained at their desks in the cavernous room. Still, the echoes of their work hung in the air. The scent of ink, the rustling of papers, the constant, steady chatter that hummed underneath it all.

  I rubbed my forehead as I studied the papers before me. Rows upon rows of names, ages, and causes of death printed neatly in crisp black ink.

  I was to sort through it all, to categorize and count the deaths, to write up the report every week for the paper. I had volunteered to do it a year ago, when I first began working with the newspaper. I was proud to be the first woman to be allowed this task, and at the young age of seventeen no less.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Back then I had only seen letters on a page, a list of facts, nothing more. I knew better now, as death touched me at long last.

  This week 249 young people from the capitol lost their lives fighting in the war. 317 died from malnutrition and disease. 53 died from violent crime within the city limits.

  Who were they? Did they leave anyone behind to mourn their deaths? Who will be left to tell their stories?

  Those were the questions I asked for each name. Those were the questions I asked about myself.

  A hand rested on my shoulder. "Go home to your family, I'll finish up here."

  It was one of the editors I worked with often. The one who checked my lists over carefully, fixing any mistakes.

  "Thank you," I said. "I will."

  I did not tell her there was no-one to return to. That my home was cold and empty, silent as the grave.