Fading Cowrie Shells
Forna's perspective
My world revolves around cowrie shells—their iridescent curves a currency of survival. Marina, once vibrant, now lies feeble, her life tethered to these fragile shells.
The cost of Marina's medicine gnaws at our dwindling stash. Cowries, once abundant, now number a mere ten. I recall our hundred-shell bounty—the days when selling vegetables sustained us. But Marina's illness has changed everything.
We starve together, clinging to hope. One meal a day, if luck favors us. Marina's once robust frame has withered, her skin stretched over bones. Strength eludes us, despite the saying that "hard times create strong men." Our struggle chips away at resilience.
Marina's frailty terrifies me. Her pale face, hair like wire, and weary eyes speak of silent battles. Depression and anxiety cling to her like shadows. I yearn for answers—why did Marina flee the palace? And how can I repay Mino, who awaits an explanation?
As I pen my thoughts, I realize the saying is flawed. Hard times don't always create strength; sometimes, they chip away until hope seems futile. Marina's silence echoes in our modest home, a plea for healing.
Farewell, dear journal. Until we meet again.
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