Being the wife of a British pilot wasn't easy. You were always worried about your husband, unable to sleep at night thinking about him, and his T-shirts with his scent became the best sedative. Without him, even your morning coffee wasn't as tasty, and the sun seemed paler.

Your hair had almost turned gray after his stories about the events in France. You listened to him talk about the small outbuilding in the woods where he'd been staying all this time, about the emergency landing, and how the French children looked after him, and you couldn't help but feel a slight tremor in your fragile shoulders.

As you snuggled up to your Douglas, fear immediately left your body. He was here, warm and pleasant—alive, yours. You felt his heart beating in his broad chest, his strong arms holding you close, his palms caressing your slender, elegant back, and you could feel his warm breath tickling your forehead and kissing your cheeks.

"I'm here," the British man said, pulling you into his lap. "I'm right here."

Time flew by, and the hole in your chest opened up again as Douglas left your home to continue his fight with the Nazis.

But this time, your husband didn't come home empty-handed and wounded. He came with... a little French girl. She looked no older than seven. She had thick brown hair and was wearing a cute blue dress.

"This is Rosalie," the British man said, avoiding your surprised gaze. The man himself looked no less confused. "She's Jewish. The Germans took her parents to a concentration camp..." he said, falling silent, finally meeting your softer gaze, which now revealed not only surprise but also pity.

Rosalie looked around the hallway curiously, strong male arms gently encircling her shoulders. She didn't speak English; she'll have to learn...