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tried to figure out what decision she should make next. There are three doors in front of her; one is locked; the center had holes in them, but she can't be sure what's inside, as it is also pitch-black; and the last one had a square of torched wood that was no bigger than her palm. It had a peephole in the middle of it. Afraid that she might get caught, she hurriedly went back to the wall, trying to brush off the idea of freedom. Is she ever going to be free again? She asked herself as she sealed off the door behind the bookshelf. Quiet as a mouse, she kept her way inside the cabin safely. But why is a tunnel secured under there? Did they not know about this? These questions will linger in her mind longer than the math formulas she had to memorize. She began to tighten her cuff and put it back in the right place—her wrists. These people have been here for about three years now. It's scary how stories of torture and maltreatment are beginning to feel normal. She couldn't even remember what life was like up there. How is her mother? Did her father come back? He told her he would. Before the invasion, thousands of Japanese fifth columns came to the Philippines as "traders" or even street sweepers. But when war broke out, they immediately wore their military uniforms, much to the Filipino people's great surprise. It was like the Trojan War. It only took about 23 minutes. Thousands of people were killed, tortured, and imprisoned, while others simply vanished and have never been found. Every day, the sights and sounds, the terrors and triumphs, all begin to sing the same tune. She was wondering when the last day of this madness would happen. They were living their best life, building a new shop and trying on their new uniform when the attacks happened. Then, in a blink, everything fell apart for her. Her father was sent to the war base, and the only thing he left with her was a few of his words. "Dina, you define your future. It will always lie in how long the string will thrive until it breaks," he said one day when they were out fishing. As she continued to try and think about her past, she laid down on a makeshift bed—piles of old carton boxes, covered with old rags stitched poorly together. She hated it here. She hated how badly she was being treated. She hated this sorry excuse for a bed. Hard. Cold. Painful. From a single drop of tear to a cascading waterfall, she catches her breath in between sobs. She doesn't know what to do... torn between an escape without any assurance and just keeping on surviving. A voice lingers as if to comfort her, and surprisingly, it did. She carefully wiped away the tears, took a deep breath, and looked through the bookshelves, where her freedom, or so she thought, awaited her. Her father's words echoed in her mind repeatedly, "Wait for me," and so she did. She waited for a sign, and there it was: a white feather dangling in the wind. It passed through the walls of her little square window. "That’s it," she said as she got up and went underground again. After returning to the tunnel five more times in the dark, she uncovered a slew of new information. She managed to find the key to the first door buried inside the book where the string came from. The floor was wet and sticky, and it was too dark to see what substance her feet were drenched in. She later found out that it was something black and flammable after she tried to spit a droplet on the floor and threw a burning match stick into it. It made a little fire that stayed for about two minutes. The second door that had holes in it had skulls inside, most of them painted red. Some were blue, and others were different
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