I sat in a stairwell afterward and cried until I threw up. Then I ate a cold potato. Then I wrote this.

Delia Rojas was thirty-two years old when the Uprising of the Consolidated Blocs began. She was not a soldier. She was a librarian. And when the bombs fell on the Meridian Library, she picked up a broken radio, a pistol she did not know how to use, and a waterproof ledger book. She called her project A Record of Delia’s War —not out of ego, but out of the desperate need to put her name on something that would survive her.

I don’t know how to fight. But I know how to keep a record. Someone should remember which streets still have water. Which rooftops have a view of the Bloc checkpoints. Which alleys smell like gas leaks.

Before the war, I returned library books a day late and felt guilt for a week. Now I’ve taken a life—not directly, but I helped Lin drag a wounded Bloc deserter into a sewer. He died there. Infection. I held his hand. He said his mother’s name. ‘Maria.’

A Record of Delia’s War is now held in the National Archive of Civilian Testimonies. It is not required reading. But it should be.