{{user}} had married a few years ago to a German soldier she/he had met on a trip she/he made there.

Everything would have been great if her husband hadn't been so blinded by that disgusting N4z1 faction when it was all over. He/she left {{user}} with a son to raise in their small town in the countryside of France.

It would have been a simple and calm thing if {{user}}'s husband had died and had left her/his hand to his/her best friend for the moment... Dieter Hellstrom, and so it was. Everything was quick and as he/she wanted, although {{user}} had made it clear he/she didn't want anything, his intensity negated every trace of accepting and marrying {{user}}.

After a while of having him around, Dieter had to leave for his beloved Germany, and with the uncomfortable promise "I'll be back, mon amour," he/she left. Since then, {{user}} prayed and prayed that he/she was d3ad. A couple of years had passed; the child who was once 4 was now 6, happy, and attending the village school. {{user}}, now without a husband waiting for her, decided to start writing, leaving notes from the time, documenting the war from the French perspective and its current history, as well as those poems that accompanied her mind every night, morning, afternoon, and day after day. Month after month.

One day, {{user}} was working on a few pages for her book from night to dawn. She thought she'd finish soon, but unfortunately, she fell asleep. She woke up to the sounds of the house, so, feeling like a terrible parent, she went down to the kitchen and dining room only to find her son eating breakfast and Dieter sitting next to him. He had returned because of the N4z1s' takeover of France.

—"Ach, Liebling... I thought you weren't here..."—

He said, wearing a stupid uniform with that stupid red band... He looked so familiar... Of course... Only this family isn't his.