No One Counted Missing

After Hadid-110 drone attacks damage the administrative quarter without reported casualties, a records clerk, her brother, and a repair contractor learn what ordinary care can hold while the city waits.

By Nora Vale, a fictional Bunko byline · Intimate social fiction with restrained political tension · 15 min read · Published 2026-08-17

Mariam Saro was at her desk in the municipal records annex on the morning of 2026-08-17, in the border-region administrative quarter, when damage reports began arriving after the Hadid-110 drone attacks launched from Iranian territory. No casualties had been reported, but the annex had broken glass taped in two windows, a warped intake door, and the hush of a place where everyone was listening for an explanation that had not yet come.

Her desk looked almost indecently orderly. Two trays, one labeled received and one labeled entered. A chipped mug with pens. A folded cloth Aunt Leena had stitched for her wrists because the metal edge of the desk grew cold even in summer. The received tray was already full. The entered tray was empty.

Mariam lifted the first form. Administrative file room, window cracked, no injury. The next form: stairwell plaster fallen, no injury. The next: door frame damaged, no injury. The handwriting changed from page to page, but the phrase returned with the force of a prayer said by people who were not sure whom they were addressing.

No injury. No casualties reported.

She entered the words as written. Records did not comfort. They held still.

Her phone buzzed beside the keyboard. Aunt Leena.

Mariam answered on the third ring. "I'm at work, Aunt Leena," Mariam said, keeping her voice low.

Aunt Leena spoke over the clink of dishes. "You left the bread wrapped. Tell me about your windows, not the whole city. Yours."

"One is cracked by the stairwell," Mariam said. "I am not near it."

"And your stomach is near what? Air?" Aunt Leena said. "I made lentils. If the power holds, warm them. If it does not, eat them cold with salt."

Mariam looked across the office, where a basin caught water from a ceiling seam. "I may be late."

"Late is not dead," Aunt Leena said. "Call your brother."

Mariam set the top form square with the stack beneath it. "Dilan does not answer me."

"Then let his phone refuse you," Aunt Leena said. "Do not do the refusing for him."

Mariam did not answer. The basin filled one drop at a time.

"I have to work," Mariam said.

"Then work," Aunt Leena said. "But call him before the tea goes bitter."

After the line ended, Mariam opened Dilan Saro's contact and stared until the screen dimmed. Her brother's absence had become practical over the years, like a missing handle on a drawer everyone had learned to open anyway. He had left after the argument about their mother's papers, though it had never been only about papers. It had been about who stayed, who earned, who owed, who was tired of being counted on and who was tired of being counted out.

She locked the phone and entered another report.

By noon the annex had the manners of a damaged kitchen after a plate had shattered. People stepped around glass. They spoke gently, then sharply, then gently again. Someone had brought tea in a thermos scented with cardamom. Someone else had taped cardboard over a low pane and written do not lean on it in large letters.

A stack from the school building arrived with a note from Samir Qadir. Mariam knew his handwriting from enrollment records and maintenance requests, tidy even under pressure. Staff sheltered during alarms, the note said. No casualties reported. Damage forms attached. Awaiting guidance on reopening.

Mariam processed the school forms slowly. Broken interior glass. Door frame damage. Ceiling cracks. No casualties reported. She could feel the strain inside each repetition, as if Samir had pressed harder each time to keep the words from floating away.

At last she carried her phone to the stairwell. The cracked window had been taped in an X. Warm dust came through the seam.

Dilan answered on the fifth ring. "If Aunt Leena ordered this call, tell her I am alive," Dilan said.

Mariam looked down at the street, where vehicles moved carefully past scattered fragments near the curb. "Are you working?"

"Deliveries don't stop because buildings are embarrassed," Dilan said. "People still want batteries, bread, medicine, the foolish things they forgot yesterday."

"No casualties have been reported," Mariam said.

"That is what everyone says."

"That is what has been reported," Mariam said. "I am entering the forms."

A pause opened between them. She heard traffic, then the dull slap of his van door.

"Of course you are," Dilan said. "Putting fear in boxes."

Mariam closed her eyes. "I called to ask whether you were safe."

"I am in the quarter," Dilan said. "Safe enough to be useful. Not safe enough to stop moving."

"Aunt Leena made lentils."

"Aunt Leena makes lentils when she wants authority over the living," Dilan said, but his voice softened. "Are you going home after work?"

"A contractor is coming tonight to board windows. I have to show him the rooms."

"Then I may pass near you," Dilan said. "Do not wait."

"I was not waiting," Mariam said.

"Good," Dilan said, and ended the call before either of them could injure the other by trying to be kind.

In the afternoon, Samir Qadir came in person with a folder tucked under his arm and dust on one shoulder. He usually moved through offices with the steady patience of a school administrator accustomed to lost forms and frightened parents. Today his neatness had loosened. His pen was missing from his shirt pocket.

"Mariam Saro?" Samir asked.

"Yes," Mariam said. "I received the school reports."

Samir set the folder on her desk as if it contained something breakable. "These are the remaining forms. Staff are asking whether we reopen tomorrow. I do not know what to tell them."

Mariam opened the folder. On every page, the word minor had been crossed out before damage. "Records can show what has been reported," she said.

"I know," Samir said. "But people hear no casualties and think no consequence. Then they hear drones and think consequence has only one shape. Some staff want routine for the children. Some cannot stand under that roof yet."

"Do you decide?" Mariam asked.

"On paper," Samir said. "Not in my stomach."

The honesty entered the office more quietly than fear had. Mariam did not know what to do with it except nod.

"I can enter these before evening," she said. "Inspection scheduling may take longer."

"A schedule sounds like a promise," Samir said. "I am not sure which promises are safe today."

Behind him, the basin overflowed. Water spread across the floor toward the completed forms.

Mariam stood too quickly and struck her knee against a drawer. Samir lifted the basin. Mariam snatched the papers away. Other hands appeared with towels, a coat, another basin. Nobody spoke until the forms were dry.

Then the lights flickered.

The room stopped.

They came back on.

A staff member at the counter began to cry with one hand over her mouth. No one stared. Someone passed a napkin. Someone else turned the kettle back on.

Mariam sat and entered the school reports.

Dusk pressed a dull gold against the taped windows. Most of the staff left in pairs, carrying bags close to their bodies. Mariam stayed because the repair contractor had not arrived and because the received tray had become low enough to leave space for thought.

She called Aunt Leena.

"I am still alive," Aunt Leena said before Mariam spoke. "The laundry is on the line. If dust falls on it, I will wash it again. This is my answer."

"You should not stand by the courtyard wall," Mariam said.

"That wall has been cracked since before you were born," Aunt Leena said. "It has more experience surviving than you do. Did you call Dilan?"

"Yes."

"Was he foolish?"

"He was working."

"That can be the same thing," Aunt Leena said. "Come home before the lentils become paste."

"A contractor is coming."

"If he has hands, give him tea," Aunt Leena said. "People who fix things are still people."

Toma Arven arrived after dark with boards, a tool bag, and the tired care of a man who had spent the day being allowed into damaged places. He gave his name to the security desk and then to Mariam, not because she had missed it but because he seemed to believe a name should be properly offered.

"Toma Arven," he said. "They told me to ask for M. Saro."

"Mariam Saro," she said. "The stairwell first. The frame shifted."

Toma glanced at the trays, the towels, the basin. "Busy day for paper."

"Busy day for glass," Mariam said.

He nodded, accepting the correction.

At the stairwell window, Toma touched the taped crack without pressing. "No one was near it?"

"No injuries reported here," Mariam said.

"Good," Toma said, taking out his measuring tape. "Good is not the same as easy."

He worked carefully, measuring twice, bracing the board, setting the screws with a low whine. The pale wood covered the damaged window. The stairwell became smaller, safer, less able to breathe.

Mariam's phone buzzed. Dilan.

She answered. "Where are you?"

"Outside the annex," Dilan said. "A delivery was refused because the office closed, but your lights are on. Is there a man with boards in there?"

Mariam looked at Toma. "Yes."

"I have parcels for the school building too," Dilan said. "No one is answering there."

"Samir Qadir was here. He is deciding whether to reopen."

"Maybe he should decide to sleep," Dilan said.

"Come in if you are outside," Mariam said. "Aunt Leena will ask whether I saw your face."

There was a silence. "Do you want to see it?" Dilan asked.

Mariam looked at the board over the window, raw and unfinished. "Yes," she said.

Dilan came in smelling of road dust and cardboard. He had lost weight, or the day had sharpened him. He stopped on the landing and looked at the boarded window.

"You work here all these years and still let the place fall apart," Dilan said.

"You arrive after one drone attack and offer building advice," Mariam said.

Toma kept his eyes on the screw. "If either of you wants to hold the board steady, advice can become labor."

Dilan blinked, then gave a short laugh. "I will hold it."

He braced the board with one palm while Toma fastened it. Sawdust fell on his sleeve. Mariam watched him keep still.

"Hadid-110," Dilan said quietly. "That is what people keep saying. As if the name gives the mind a chair."

Toma changed screws. "People like a name for the thing that scared them."

Mariam said, "The records say the drones were identified as Hadid-110 drones launched from Iranian territory. They also say no casualties were reported."

Dilan looked at her. "You sound like your forms."

"Today that may be useful," Mariam said.

"Useful is not nothing," Toma said.

They moved through the annex together. Toma measured and fastened. Dilan carried boards. Mariam unlocked rooms and noted what had been secured. In the copying room, broken glass glittered between archived notices. Mariam put on gloves and began lifting shards one by one.

"Leave that," Dilan said. "I will do it."

"You always say that after the cut happens," Mariam said.

He looked at her hand. A thin red line had opened along her thumb.

Toma set down the drill. "Sink?"

"Down the hall," Mariam said.

"Wash it," Toma said. "I have clean tape. Not for windows. For skin."

Mariam wanted to say it was nothing. It was almost nothing. But the day had been full of almost nothing, and all of it had weight.

At the sink, water ran pink, then clear. Dilan followed with a paper towel and tore it unevenly.

"You used to cut fruit toward your hand," Dilan said. "Mother would shout."

"You used to steal the best slices before dinner," Mariam said.

"I was growing."

"You were greedy."

"Both," Dilan said.

The quiet after that was not the old silence. It had room in it.

Mariam turned off the tap. "When you left, Aunt Leena cooked too much food. She said it was habit, but it was not."

Dilan wrapped the towel around her thumb without looking up. "When I stayed away, I thought you would be relieved. One less person to disappoint you."

"That is stupid," Mariam said.

"I know," Dilan said. "I knew it less then."

Toma appeared in the doorway with medical tape. "I am interrupting because blood makes poor paperwork," he said.

Mariam let him tape the towel snugly.

Dilan called Samir from the annex phone because his own battery was low. He stood beside Mariam's desk with one hand on the receiver cord.

"This is Dilan Saro, delivery driver," Dilan said. "I have parcels marked for the school building. I am at the records annex with Mariam Saro and Toma Arven. Do you want them held here?"

He listened, his face settling into seriousness.

"No, I will not leave them outside," Dilan said. "Yes. Records annex until morning."

He hung up. "He says the school will stay closed until the damaged rooms are inspected."

Mariam wrote a note for the morning file. "That sounds wise."

"He sounded ashamed," Dilan said.

Toma tightened a hinge on the intake door. "People are ashamed when fear does not turn into usefulness fast enough."

Aunt Leena called at nine. Mariam put her on speaker because of her thumb.

"If you are alive, say so plainly," Aunt Leena said.

Dilan leaned toward the phone. "I am alive plainly."

For a moment Aunt Leena said nothing.

"Dilan the Younger," Aunt Leena said. "You remember phones work in both directions?"

"I remembered today," Dilan said.

"Today is greedy and takes credit for everything," Aunt Leena said. "Are you bringing Mariam home?"

"After the contractor finishes."

"Contractor," Aunt Leena said. "Does he have hands?"

Toma looked startled. Mariam almost smiled. "Yes, Aunt Leena."

"Then he should come for tea. Lentils, bread, and laundry dusted by history," Aunt Leena said.

"He may have more work," Mariam said.

Toma wiped his hands on a cloth. "More work after midnight. Tea before midnight is possible."

"Good," Aunt Leena said. "No one should repair a city hungry."

By ten, the annex had changed. Boards dulled the street noise. The intake door closed without scraping. The copying room was swept, though Mariam knew she would find bright splinters for weeks, evidence refusing to be complete.

They locked the annex together. Outside, the quarter had not calmed, but it had lowered its voice. Windows shone behind boards and tape. People carried brooms, bags, kettles, children half asleep against shoulders. No one celebrated the absence of death. It was too large and fragile a mercy for noise.

"Aunt Leena's?" Dilan asked.

"For tea," Mariam said. "Not for a reconciliation ceremony."

"I hate ceremonies," Dilan said.

"You hate arriving on time for them."

Toma secured his tools. "If there is tea, I will not insult it by getting lost."

Aunt Leena opened the door before they knocked. The hallway smelled of lentils, soap, and ironed cotton. She wore a cardigan despite the heat.

"Come in," Aunt Leena said. "Shoes there. Fear outside, if it will listen."

Dilan bent to remove his shoes. Aunt Leena touched the back of his head with two fingers, a blessing disguised as inspection.

"Too thin," Aunt Leena said.

"Still rude," Dilan said.

"Good," Aunt Leena said. "Then you are not broken."

Toma stood on the mat with his boots in one hand. "Thank you for having me, Aunt Leena."

"Tomorrow you may be formal," Aunt Leena said. "Tonight you eat."

They sat around the kitchen table. The lentils had thickened, as promised. Aunt Leena had sliced onions and put salt in a saucer. Mariam struggled with the bread because of her thumb, and Dilan tore a piece for her without comment.

The small act entered the room and took its place.

Toma ate steadily. Aunt Leena asked him about his work, and he answered in general terms: windows, hinges, doors, glass. No grand statements. No borrowed grief. Mariam was grateful. The city had already been handled too much by rumor.

Samir called while tea was being poured. Mariam answered from the kitchen doorway.

"I am sorry to disturb you," Samir said. "I wanted to confirm the parcels are secured."

"They are inside the annex," Mariam said. "Dilan carried them in."

"Thank him for me," Samir said. "I sent notice that the school building will remain closed until inspection. Some staff will be angry. Some relieved. Perhaps both."

"Both is common today," Mariam said.

"Yes," Samir said. "Good night, Mariam Saro."

"Good night, Samir Qadir," Mariam said.

When she returned, no one asked at once. Aunt Leena refilled her cup first.

"The school will not reopen tomorrow," Mariam said.

Dilan nodded. "Children will celebrate until adults explain why they should not."

"Adults ruin many holidays," Toma said.

Aunt Leena pointed her spoon at him. "Contractors pretend they do not need second helpings. That is also a kind of ruin."

He accepted more lentils.

Later, after Toma left for his midnight work, Mariam and Dilan stood in the courtyard beneath the laundry. Sheets moved faintly above them, clean and dusty at once. The old crack in the courtyard wall looked unchanged.

"She really washed everything," Dilan said.

"She washes when she cannot command the sky," Mariam said.

"And you file forms."

"And you deliver parcels no one is ready to receive."

Dilan rubbed his hands together though the night was warm. "What is safety now, Mara? Staying home? Going out? Trusting reports? Not trusting them?"

Mariam thought of the words she had entered all day, steady and insufficient. No casualties reported. She thought of the board over the stairwell window, Samir's closed school, Toma's tape around her thumb, Aunt Leena's blue pot.

"Maybe safety is being allowed to tell the truth about damage," Mariam said. "Without making it larger or smaller than it is."

Dilan leaned carefully away from the cracked wall. "That sounds like a records clerk."

"It is also your sister," Mariam said.

He looked at her then, not quickly and not with the old challenge. "All right."

It was not enough. It was more than yesterday.

Inside, Aunt Leena called through the open door. "If you two are forgiving each other, do it after drying the cups. Forgiveness leaves water spots when unsupervised."

Mariam laughed first. Dilan followed, quieter but real.

They went in and stood side by side at the sink, Mariam washing with her untaped hand, Dilan drying, Aunt Leena inspecting the shelves as if order itself were a guest who might be persuaded to stay. Outside, the administrative quarter waited for explanations that would arrive in formal language and be argued over in offices, doorways, and kitchens. Inside, no one called it luck. Luck was too thin a blanket.

There had been drone attacks. The drones had been identified as Hadid-110 drones launched from Iranian territory. No casualties had been reported. Buildings were damaged. People were unharmed and not unchanged.

Mariam placed the last cup upside down on the towel. Dilan dried it carefully and set it in Aunt Leena's cabinet where it belonged.