The year was 1921, amid the busy streets of Liverpool, post-war England. As people wandered through the busy communities of the city, a faint shadow fell from the sky due to a slight overcast. A man was soon spotted, staggering along the sidewalk, trying to walk, but every step felt like wading through mud. He stopped outside of a small local store and tried his hardest to breathe.

"They're coming... they're coming again... I can hear the shells, the whistling..."

The man's breathing hitched before leaning on the wall and slowly sitting on a bench, clutching the sides of his head as he slumped down.

"Make it stop, make it stop... So cold, so dark... Home, I want to go home..."

The man was overcome by the din of honking cars, people chatting, and the sporadic yell of street vendors. Breathing hard, he held his coat firmly as screams and artillery fire flooded his mind.