Him and Her The room he'd been thrown into was dark. The walls were rough and wet. A single window on the west side of the room let in a sliver of light. It was barred. It stopped him from escaping, but didn't stop the spiders and rats from crawling in. As they'd tied his hands behind his back, and dragged him there through the dirt streets, they swore it wasn't a prison where they were taking him. They promised it wasn't a cell. It was. He knew it, and so did they. It was early fall. The days were crisp. The nights were chilled. So were the screams that came from the other cells. Cold, piercing the brittle blackness like knives. He hardly heard those screams, though. He only heard her sobs. She'd been so stoic, for so long. But now her wall of bravery was beginning to crumble, and him along with it. For he knew it was his fault, that neither one of them would ever feel a fresh breeze against their faces. He knew that they'd never dip their toes in the Seine. He knew they'd never laugh, running hand in hand, bathed in late summer sun. He knew that their days were numbered.