Annie gazed at what lay before her. There wasn’t much to see; only gray and brown. She couldn’t remember color, only these dull colors of things that perhaps were once bright. Annie had two dresses, one a dull gray, and the other a washed out shade of brown, with tiny gray flowers.
Some mornings, she lined up, with her three aunts and the prisoners, to get her tasteless soup. Some mornings, there was no soup. Then, she went with the other women to sort the clothing. Sometimes, at night, they got some more soup, but only enough to barely whet their appetites.
That was the way the years passed, days upon end, and nothing mattered; until the woman- and the flowers- came. It was a Tuesday, I think, she later recalled. Annie, of course, had no way of knowing.
She was ushered in, just like the others, but something was different about her. It might have been the way she held her head, or the slight, triumphant smirk on her face, maybe, it was her cheerful disposition. Whatever it was, she was different.