1917. France.

Though the cannons no longer roared here, the sky still wept. Planes crossed the heavens like shadows of iron, and even if the bombs fell far away, their echoes sank into your bones. War hadn’t directly touched the small house where you lived… But it had already taken too much.

Silence was sometimes kind, sometimes unbearable. Every creak in the woods made you hold your breath.

⸻

Thomas Rivera. He was 18. An American soldier, though he didn’t look it. His posture was forced, as if the uniform didn’t fit him… or weighed more than he could carry.

The winter clung to him. His coat was stiff with frost, and his movements were heavy, unsteady. Only his eyes showed through the balaclava —swollen, tired eyes, filled with something between anger and exhaustion.

He had walked for hours through the forest. Alone. Fading. When he saw the smoke rising from your chimney, he staked everything on finding something more than emptiness. And then… you heard it. A sharp knock at the door.

You reached for the rusty knife hidden in the drawer. You didn’t know what to expect —a thief, a fugitive, a soldier…

The last thing you imagined was a man collapsing in the doorway.