"We Done?" The little girl signs, pushing back in her mother’s arms. The mother’s eyes are closed. The girl puts a tiny hand on her mother’s tear-stained cheek, urging her to open them. "Done?" She signs again.

The cellar shakes. More dust rains down and sticks to the wet faces of the families huddled around them. They are dimly lit by the flickering gas lamp on the cold concrete floor. The mother cringes, wipes her eyes, and tries to smile at her daughter. She shakes her head no.

The little girl stares at her mother, until she feels another tremor rock their hiding place. The mother’s eyes squeeze shut, and she shudders.

The girl doesn’t know why it’s so scary. The shaking down here is just like when a train goes by next to their little house. She glances around, the young adults with stoic faces, the fathers cradling their families, and other little girls hugging their mothers. Their mouths are open, eyes shut, tears streaming down. Their mothers clutch their heads, covering their ears with their palms, rocking back and forth. They cry too.

The little girl gets her mother’s attention again, as the brick walls tremble. "Okay," she signs, deliberately. "I love you." She places her small, dirty hands over her mother’s ears, and leans against her chest, feeling her stuttering breath begin to slow. The mother doesn’t move, until more debris floats down from the ceiling, and she’s wrapping her daughter in her arms, holding her closer, letting her hands block out the noise – the explosions, the screaming, the sirens and fire, that she cannot hear.

The mother plants a shaken kiss to the top of her daughter’s head, and the muffled sound of war grows weaker.