Washed Away Noemie Picard French-United World College of South East Asia, Singapore (2st Place)
“Nuna?” the boy called. He was small, about four years old with soft shaggy brown hair and dark sleepy eyes. “Hm?” The girl looked up from her book, she was pretty, with shiny black hair and a round youthful face, her eyes, however, were dark and weary, adding a couple of years to her age. Dark eyes are always filled with secrets, I thought to myself. The boy was lying on the only mattress in the centre of the room, next to the mattress was a chest of drawers with a mirror balanced on top. Bordering the rest of the walls were two chairs, a tall lamp and a small fan. Tangled between the boy’s legs was a flower print duvet, partially thrown off onto the warm wooden floor. The girl sighed, closing her book before climbing over to the mattress where she adjusted her brother’s blanket. “What’s rain like?” the boy murmured whilst the girl gently smoothed his hair back. Her fingers paused mid-stroke while she recalled the cool wetness of the raindrops falling from the sky in thousands of watery globes, how when the sun arose a spectrum of colour would reflect across the sky, how after every storm, the ground would smell richer and look flatter than before. Her eye discoursed and a small smile appeared on her face before she turned back to her brother. “Remember when you cried, Jun-sung? Rain is like the sky crying, falling from the clouds.” she sat down on the warm wooden floors next to the mattress. “You heard it today, right? When I went out?” “Mm-hm.” the boy stretched himself, his chubby hands clamped into fists. “It was loud, like Aboji’s stomach.” the girl smiled for a fraction of a second. It was hard to think about Aboji, her late father. Because you’re a liar, I whispered into her ear. She gritted her teeth, not saying a word, focusing on her brother only. “Does rain hurt?” Jun-sung asked, his blinks became more laborious.