Diego noticed Liliana’s face cut by the article she held in front of her eyes. It was dark, her brown cinched low as the words hovered there on the edge of her lips. He wondered what it was like for her to be reading about what happened instead of having lived through it—seeing the war in fading calibrated text instead of in blood. He always thought reading about it would never do the war justice—that words were incapable of saying what it was like, of saying anything at all. But looking at Liliana’s face just then, mist forming at the edge of her lash line, he suddenly felt the need to take the page creased between her fingers and rip it up into nothing. Maybe words could never express the gravity of what had happened, or the darkness that still lingered over the city but by the dark flux in Liliana’s eyes it was obvious that they weren’t harmless either.