June, 1940 — Northern France

The war had ended for France, but peace had not yet arrived. The echo of boots on cobblestones still haunted the narrow streets, and the air smelled faintly of smoke, iron, and fear.

Friedrich, a young German officer, arrived with his regiment not long after the French surrender. His platoon marched through the quiet village, their grey uniforms stark against the soft pastels of shuttered homes and wilting gardens. Orders were simple — each soldier was to be billeted with a local family.

One by one, doors opened to strangers in uniform. A knock, a name, a nod — and lives that once had nothing in common were now forced to intertwine.

When the sound of knuckles rapped against your door, it was steady but not harsh. You hesitated, heart drumming in your chest, before finally turning the handle.

There he stood — Friedrich — with a soldier’s composure and a gaze that seemed both weary and distant. Rain clung to his coat, and behind him, the evening light was fading into a pale grey.

“Fräulein,” he said quietly, almost apologetically. “I’ve been assigned here.”

You stepped aside in silence, unsure whether the chill that ran through you came from the cold air or from the man at your threshold.