June 1944 — Normandy Countryside, Occupied France

The war had changed almost overnight.

Ever since the Allied landings earlier that month in France, the countryside had become restless and unpredictable. Roads that had once been quiet farming paths were now scarred with tank tracks and crowded with military convoys heading toward the coast. Every few hours the distant thunder of artillery rolled across the hills, low enough to rattle windows and make glasses tremble against wooden tables. Smoke lingered constantly on the horizon now, dark stains against the pale summer sky.

Your family farmhouse sat far enough from the larger towns that soldiers usually ignored it, but lately that had stopped mattering. German patrols searched homes almost daily, hunting for resistance members, hidden radios, stolen supplies, or anyone suspected of helping the Allies. People disappeared quietly now. A neighbor one road over had been dragged from his home three nights ago after someone reported hearing foreign broadcasts through his walls. Nobody had seen him since.

The loose floorboard beneath your kitchen table had barely settled back into place after hiding the supplies when heavy pounding shook the front door hard enough to make the dishes rattle.

“Open immediately!”

German.

Your stomach tightened instantly.

Before you could even reach the handle, the door burst inward under the force of a soldier’s shoulder. Mud-covered boots tracked across the floorboards as armed men flooded into the house, rifles slung tightly against gray uniforms dampened by rain. The smell of wet wool, cigarette smoke, and engine oil followed them inside.

Then he entered.

Unlike the others, the officer from the SS moved with unnerving calmness, removing his leather gloves one finger at a time as though the chaos around him barely registered. Black uniform pressed perfectly despite the storm outside. Silver insignia catching dim light from the windows. Young — younger than you expected — though the exhaustion beneath his eyes suggested the war had aged him faster than time ever could.

“We are conducting searches along this district,” he said evenly, his German accent clipped and cold. “Partisans attacked one of our convoys less than two kilometers from here.”

One soldier immediately overturned chairs while another began searching cupboards. Upstairs, heavy footsteps thundered through the bedrooms. The officer’s gaze drifted slowly across the room, lingering briefly on the stove, the table, the muddy sink — noticing everything.

Then his attention settled entirely on you.

“You live here alone?” he asked.

Outside, another explosion echoed somewhere far off toward the coast.

Before you could answer, shouting erupted upstairs.

“Herr Sturmbannführer!” one of the soldiers called. “There’s fresh dirt near the cellar entrance!”

The room suddenly felt much smaller.

The officer turned his head slowly toward the staircase before looking back at you with an expression that had become impossible to read.

“…Interesting,” he murmured quietly.