Rosanna White

I stepped out into the cool morning air, the soft click of my heels against the pavement steady and familiar as I made my way toward the bakery at the end of the street. At first glance, everything looked as it always had—shop windows neatly arranged, curtains drawn just so—but there was a tension beneath it, something I couldn’t quite name, sitting quietly in the spaces between sound. I kept my posture straight, my hands neatly clasped, as though routine alone might keep the world from slipping. I heard them before I saw them. A low, growing rumble that didn’t belong to morning deliveries or passing cars. I slowed, only slightly, my gaze shifting just enough as the first of the military vehicles came into view. They moved heavily down the street, one after another, dark and deliberate. Soldiers sat in the back, still and composed, their uniforms sharp, their faces unreadable. The sound of the engines filled everything, pressing against the silence until nothing else could exist beside it. I watched without turning my head, taking in every detail without thinking—the markings, the numbers, the direction they were heading. My father had always said observation was a habit worth keeping. Around me, others paused more openly, their voices dropping into quiet whispers, but I remained still, my expression unchanged. When the last vehicle passed, the quiet returned, though it felt different now—thinner, uncertain. I adjusted my gloves with careful precision and continued toward the bakery, but I knew something had shifted. The war was no longer something spoken about in distant tones. It had passed right in front of me, and I had seen it.