It was an early and cold morning, as Lia stared up at the sky turning blue. The young teenage girl was surrounded by grass and foreign voices. The dream had returned, but she was scared that it was true. It could not be true, she remembered grass. The beauty of peace and no fear.
“Linnea! Breakfast is not going to make itself!” the stern voice of a woman reached her, and with a groan Lia got up from the grass. Her long hair was filled with leaves, branches, and the early morning fog.
The woman who was standing in front of her was called aunt Greta. She took in the homeless children that come from the ocean. Linnea had been living with her since … forever, it felt. Many of the children lived there as a gateway house, to get to the family they came to live with or some were sent to families who took in children.
Herself was the exception, as no one knew who she was. The pink-eyed Lia washed up 6 years ago, and now she was 12. Turning 13 soon. Greta was like a mother, or a very close relative. It even helped that the woman named her and gave her a place to stay.
She always helped in the kitchen, making the meals for the five children that where currently staying here, and always listened to the radio. Today was no exception. Lia wished for the people on the radio to call for her, she wished to hear a mother calling for a daughter with bright pink eyes, freckled face, brown hair and skin. It never happened.
All she heard was how the war still raged on, and that England were losing over the United states of America.
As little Birgitta tiptoed into the kitchen, Linnea quickly turned down the noise from the radio. She never changed to the music stations, as there was nothing there but lies of a better world.
“hungry.” The three year-old said.
“I know. I know.”
She continued looking up, expecting food while rubbing her tired grey eyes.
The child had no idea how lucky she was, to live in a neutral country, and where war planes rarely hit. The little girl originated from Norway and she had arrived to the country with her older brother Arre. His hair was as white as his skin, always mumbling things to himself, but he took good care of his little sister and Lia was insanely envious.
Now he came into the kitchen too, the white hair poking up everywhere and he looked at his sister, then to the food that was soon ready to be eaten.
“I wake the others?” he said in a rusty Swedish, or that is how it sounded to Lia. Her own was not perfect, far from it, but it was much better than his.
As a response she nodded. Arre left his sister in the kitchen and went to the other rooms to wake up the remaining three children.