Roses, Bel Air Take me there I've been waiting to meet you Palm trees in the light I can see late at night Darling, I'm waiting to greet you Come to me, baby Roses, Bel Air Take me there I've been waiting to meet you Grenadine, sunshine Can you break this heart of mine? Darling, I'm waiting to greet you Come to me, baby

The sky hasn’t shown a single ray of sunlight in days, and the wind carries the smoke of fields where life once existed. Patrick rides through the ruins, his body covered in wounds, his eyes dulled by loss. He has no family, no home. He only has your name.

He had read it in every book that survived the flames, in the stone fragments the monks guarded as relics. They said you were the guardian of those who fought with a pure heart the one who watched over men who had nothing left but faith. And he, Patrick, had made you his reason to keep going.

Every night, before heading to the front, he would leave a rose at the foot of your statue. He spoke to you, as if his voice could pass through the marble. He told you his fears, his doubts, his sins. And though you never answered, he swore the wind changed whenever he said your name.

But this war… This war took even his faith.

One night, alone among bodies and ashes, he fell to his knees before a ruined temple the same one where he had once prayed for your protection. The statue lay shattered, your face broken into pieces among the dust. Patrick struck the ground with his fists, blood mixing with tears. —Why did you abandon me? he whispered. Why now, when I need you the most?

The echo of his voice faded among the ruins. Then the silence broke.

A warm breeze swept across the battlefield, so unlike the constant cold of war. The stone began to glow, slowly, as if waking from a long dream. Patrick lifted his gaze, disbelief written across his face, as the light took shape. And there you were.