It's all one flower.

Midsummer sunshine scorches the blackened asphalt that has just been laid, and sears those who go to the road. And those without shoes avoided the harsh heat, and chose the shadow to walk. Street tree cows are still safe, but only hip-tall and the shadows are small.

The city of Listver Autonomous Region, visible through its windows, was completely reborn less than six months after the winter fires.

Looking down from the high ground, little (if any) shadow can be seen of the time when the eastern part of the Listwer Autonomous Region was drooling with sewage.

Eighty percent of the eastern part now formed a neat city annexation with a further plot of zoned and rubble-free land and a prefabricated temporary house, a group of wooden mortar apartments and a hedge of sea urchins surrounding the site.

In front of the western Sheeney Green Space, a reinforced concrete collective home is built, with interior construction craftsmen busy entering and exiting. Across a brand new two-lane road between collective homes, in front of apartment groups, makeshift housing groups, solar panels and desalination plants extending east of them, and factory zones, shopping districts are being built, and workers sweat in the heat.

Only a corner close to the Kublum Mountains left the road slightly burned as a fire belt, chaos up to six months ago… the barracks blinked disorderly, clamping a lump of life without a road-like path.

A wagon car slowly enters the church grounds of the eastern parish of Listver. There is a confectionery store name in the body, but it is not a confectionery delivery.

Supported by a confectioner's wife, the tailor's shopkeeper Kufushenka stepped out of the car. Stepping out of an air-conditioned car, the heat strikes you as hard as you can breathe. The confectioner and his hardware store son were entrusted with the unloading, and Kufushenka clutched to the church door with a cane.

Weekday afternoons, but the chapel seats are almost filled. The majority were women, but in a few cases men were also mixed. People are bent over and move their hands all at once, and they don't even look at the old woman who came in.

There is no air conditioning in the chapel and the air under the high ceiling is lukewarm. Still, better than outside, the old woman wiped her sweat with a handkerchief and headed back.

"Oh, hello, Kufshenka"

"It's hot, are you okay"

The women, who were touring between the chairs and describing the work, smile and worry at Kufshenka. The tailor's manager nodded with a smile back at his collaborators.

"Hi, I'm fine. I'm glad you're all doing well."

"Yeah, thanks to you."

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am passionate about mastering technology"

In early June, tailor manager Kufshenka, along with supporters of his brother Congressman Lacueus, launched a relief business for those who lost everything but their lives in the winter fires. Not long after the busy days, July is already about to end.

During the last two months or less, dead goods were collected and bazaared in the rural areas and estate districts where the wealthy lived.

All proceeds are converted into preserved foods and medicines, while surpluses and food are used to reward the needy employed in relief operations and to material processed products.

Pharmaceuticals donated to elementary and secondary schools and churches to make it a small support for people unable to go to hospitals.

The lake in the eastern part of the Ristover Autonomous Region is a factory zone. To the west, which separated the large roads of the factory group, was the shopping district and hospital of the worker counterpart, but swallowed by the February fire, all lost. There is also a hospital in the estate district, but the people who were burned out of the barracks have no money. In the East End, even over-the-counter cold pills, antipyretics, and damp cloths were valuables.

Among the dead goods collected, stationery and picture books were donated to elementary and secondary schools.

Borough clothes collected buttons at the Kufshenka store, rented an empty classroom and turned them to rag sewing work for people hired in the bailout business. Even with dirt and scratches, the clothes still to be worn were fixed at the Kufshenka store and, likewise, as many people as possible were temporarily hired for laundry as a business. I rented a place in the church and made a broom in parallel.

I paid the people I hired in those single-shot businesses for the food and clothing, the cleaning equipment they made.

Because everyone was eager to make it, it was harder to get the material for it, and now it's better than a rag, but I'm in the business of solving (so much) clothes and making bags, and cleaning using cleaning equipment that I used to make.

The job-ridden people went to church and makeshift school vacant classrooms knowing that some of what they had made could be made their own and then hired in the business that followed.

... Anyone who can walk forward like this, even if he loses everything but his life in that fire, must be fine.

Kufshenka remembered Viola, who disappeared from the church, and her atrophied chest ached in her old age.

A girl who lost herself in a fire and had an infant (only a child) who didn't know whose child she was. Since my parents had taken guests, I wonder if I was relieved to be alone and reject them - someone who knew what was going on with her secretly whispered so.

A baby was born around the end of spring and remained in just one body. Viola put herself in a makeshift home, but her nightshift neighbor yelled at her when the baby was loud, and during the day she started leaning herself against the church.

"Not much, but this, at times"

"Thank you. But I can't give back anything..."

"I mean fine. Pay for birth."

The sympathetic people shared the food without, but the milk came out poorly, and the baby weakened day by day.

Viola participated in the making of the scissors and worked hard to learn the unfamiliar handiwork as far as Khushchenka and the couple of newspapers who coached her on how to make it could see. While working, the newspaper man's wife took care of Viola's child with the other dairy swallowers. Since powdered milk was not available, wheat porridge and the like diluted with warm water were given a spoon to drink, bathed, and hit the donated amulet.

"Thank you. I can't do anything..."

"It's okay. She's my first child. We just have to remember and be able to do it."

"Yes, I'll do my best"

Answered with a tearful smile, in fact, Viola was at her best. If it's true, you should be at the age of attending middle school, but it's not uncommon for a man of this age to be daughter-in-law in the East End with a lot of poor people.

Previously, the unreachable babies that poor daughters had given birth to in "work" were sent out to foster children, but after the Great Fire there was nowhere to afford them, and the pick-up of those babies did not appear.

Even on a day when the ingredients were scarce and there was no work to make them, Viola was driven away by her neighbors and she was giving up her pale dairy swallows in the corner of the chapel.

Every day an old ni monk who goes from the estate district gives his mother and child one candy ball at a time. Many parents and children face the church for candy balls, not just for viola. As soon as he got the candy balls and offered a prayer of gratitude, he would leave, but Viola was getting smaller in a chapel chair until her neighbor's time at work.

Viola was trying hard to remember needlework by also participating in making bags one day when the material was there.

The tailor's manager, Kufshenka, stands beside the altar and looks around the chapel. Even today, there was no sign of Viola among the people who put their energy into needlework.