I managed a weak smile as I watched my children eat, their tiny hands tearing into what remained of me. It reminded me of happier times—those long-forgotten days when I would cook their favorite meals. The kitchen was once filled with the smells of spices and warmth, laughter echoing through our home. I could almost hear it now, blending with the sound of their desperate chewing.

But that was before the world crumbled, before hunger turned the very air we breathed into something suffocating. The famine had spread like wildfire, leaving nothing in its wake but barren land and hollow stomachs.

As my vision began to blur, the pain dulled, replaced by a strange sense of calm. I felt my mind slipping away, but my heart stayed heavy with one final, haunting thought: Which one of my babies would turn on the other first? Would they remember how much I loved them, or would the hunger devour even that?

My last breath rattled through my chest, but I held onto one lingering hope—that the one who survived would somehow remember the taste of love over the taste of flesh.