The Things We Leave Behind

The factory loomed like a beast in the half-light, its ribs rusted steel beams, its breath thick with oil and sweat. The air inside was heavy, pressed down by the clatter of machines and murmurs of tired voices. The children labored in silence, heads down, hands quick. The foremen watched from walkways above, eyes like gun barrels scanning for weakness.

My first night in the barracks, I met Mädchen. She was already lying in the upper bunk when I was pushed inside, my thin blanket rolled under my arm. The room was cramped, the walls bare and cracked. The single bulb overhead cast long, uneasy shadows.

“New girl,” she muttered without looking at me.

I hesitated. “Yes.”

A pause. Then, “Don’t expect comfort.”

I had learned not to.

Weeks passed. The days bled together, the factory floor becoming a second skin, the air thick with metal shavings and exhaustion. But Mädchen and I learned each other in the way caged creatures do. We worked side by side, stole bread when possible, whispered at night about things we barely dared believe.

Whispers of escape started like smoke, drifting through the ranks of us—children with hollow eyes but sharp minds. We had a network, passing notes in sleeves, gathering snatches of conversations from officers who spoke too freely. There was talk of a resistance, of people fighting beyond the borders of this controlled world, people who could use the kind of secrets we carried.

And then there were the documents.

No one knew who provided them. Slipped under floorboards, tucked into blankets—blueprints, manifests, schedules. Someone high up was helping us. We didn’t need to know who. We only needed to act.

The plan was desperate. The factory’s planes were built for war, but there were smaller ones, two-seaters meant for reconnaissance. Mädchen had built them, studied each part’s function, memorized the dials and controls. She could fly—in theory. It was enough.

The night came. A fire in the far hangar was supposed to draw the guards away, but not all of them left. As Mädchen and I sprinted for the plane, sirens wailed, jackboots pounded against steel.

We reached the cockpit. She climbed in, fingers shaking as she flipped switches, the engine humming. I turned, scanning shadows—too many figures, too close. If they saw the plane lift off, they’d follow. We wouldn’t get far.

I knew what I had to do.

I wrenched the flight deck door open.

“Mädchen,” I called, voice steady. “Go. I’ll draw them away.”

She froze. “No.”

“It’s the only way.”

Her fingers clenched the controls. “I don’t—”

“You can do this.” I reached up, squeezing her wrist. “I believe in you.”

For the first time since I’d known her, Mädchen looked afraid. But she nodded. A breath. Then another. The plane roared to life.

I stepped back as it lurched forward into the night. I ran, diving into shadows, creating chaos, buying her time.

Mädchen was free.

Now, the real fight begins.

And I’m just getting started.