Warning bells could be mistaken for a clock tower.
Screams of my name could be mistaken for cries of joy.
Bombs could be mistaken for shooting stars.
Ash could be mistaken for snow.
But none of them are. I know what's going on as soon as it starts. First the warning bells. Then the screams. Then the explosion. Then the ash. It's not hard to put two and two together and figure out that you're going to die. As I walk through the swirling ash, I let what could be a snowflake settle on my sleeve. But of course it's not a snowflake at all, but a piece of blackened flesh. I jerk my hand back and watch as the destruction of my district unfolds before my eyes. My mother is kneeling beside the bookshelf that is crushing my seven-year-old brother's frail little body. A bomb that really could be a shooting star shatters both their bodies, sending a shower of their flesh to rain down on me. And that's when I can see the tiny shred of hope that that bomb was a shooting star flutter off into the breeze. Because warning bells could never be a clock tower. Screams of my name could never be cries of joy. Bombs could never be shooting stars. Ash could never be snow. And that's how I know, when the tears stream down my face, that those tears are not raindrops.