The day of exile has come. When the air was cleared after a few days, Vincent initiated to give some leftover foods at the storage room for the protesters. He opened the doors, holding puffs of bread and French toasts, and some filtered waters. The situation out of the palace is worst.
There were several soliders stacked up at the corner, all of them dead, their freezing hands lay on the ground. The protesters cocooned at each other, staying over the night, waiting for the president's defeat. After all these years, they will be set free.
Vincent approached them carefully. He expected a withdrawal, denying their presence, as if they could never accept anything coming out of the palace. Vincent crouched down to a little girl, her lips cracked up, and her skin was too dry. It brought tears in his eyes.
