I've been going through and editing the first story of Prawa V, Comes The Sandstorm, and making changes to it, such as adding to the story with things such as physical descriptions, and so on. I've completely changed the beginning and given the Narrator a far better motivation. We've all lot someone precious and I hope I can convey the numbness one feels in such a circumstance.

As always, constructive criticism and thoughts most welcome.

Ida is a Danish name. Czajka is a Polish name meaning 'lapwing,' a type of bird, for those not familiar. I thought it was important to establish the two languages in the opening passage, even if the reader doesn't immediately understand the differentiation.

I do try, when using other languages, to ensure I give context, as I don't wish to alienate anglophones. Regarding myself, I am a Brit, but speak several languages as I am a bit of a mongrel! I won't curse you guys with Welsh, haha! Anything in my writing that doesn't have sufficient context, please do tell me. I want my writing to be accessible. Thank you.

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I gave a reluctant nod, jaw clenched, lips tight, and glanced at the orderly. He carefully replaced the sheet over her face.

The chill of the morgue was nothing compared to the cold inside me. She lay there on the slab, bruised and swollen, eyes shut. She’d left me months ago. The mines took all my time. She was lonely. I don’t blame her for that. I just wish we could’ve talked before she found him. A soldier, one with time for her. My Ida. And now she was dead. Now she was gone.

I stood there, unsure of the protocol. So, I just stood.

“Subject 07-B, confirmed as the deceased by husband,” the orderly muttered into his terminal. He paused, then looked at me. I barely noticed. “We’re finished here. Please go to the office for the paperwork.”

I nodded, slowly, then walked numbly to the door. The sand scratched at the windows, a soft, steady hiss that hadn’t stopped in two days. The light outside was the colour of rusted brass, sky and ground smeared together in the wind. I didn’t go back to the mine and no-one came looking. There were no calls nor knocks, just silence, and the low hum of the building’s backup generator when the grid dropped for an hour. I sat on the floor, back against the wall, Ida’s tags in my hand.

On the third morning, a slip pushed under the door. No name was on it, just block lettering: FAILURE TO REPORT – WORK CONVERSION ENACTED - MANDATORY SERVICE REASSIGNMENT - BLOCK C-7 – 0900 HOURS

I read it once and folded it. I didn’t pack. Just slipped the tags around my neck and left the flat as it was. The conscription hall was a prefabricated block off the railway line. Rows of benches, dust in the corners. A machine-voiced clerk read names from a slate while two enforcers handed out equipment bags. No-one spoke. They gave me a PDF uniform that didn’t fit, stained boots, and rifle with "Nowicki" scratched into the stock. No instructions, just a sector map, a bunk number, and a duty rotation I couldn’t read properly. My post was a wire-fenced pump station on the edge of the district. Nothing ever happened. No one even passed by.

On the fourth night, Czajka sat down across from me in the mess. He didn’t introduce himself. I had already asked who he was. I’d seen him watching me.

"Heard about your wife."

I nodded, eyes on the table.

"Can't have been easy."

Another nod.

"They... uh..." He paused. Searching. "She didn't get a burial. That's not right."

My jaw tensed. I kept my stare fixed on the scratches in the metal surface between us.

"It didn't have to be that way." He stood. He didn’t look at me when he spoke again. "There’s a unit. 280th. Rough posting. Not for everyone." He paused. "But they bury their own." He walked out without waiting for a reply.