May 15th, 1943— Dust cascaded from the shattered ceiling as the door opened and swiftly closed. A woman clad in an American soldier uniform leaned against it. She was breathing heavily, her hair in disarray, loosely tied back in a braid. Her eyes were closed, and her brows were furrowed tightly together.

As she tried calming her breathing, she found you by the kitchen's entrance, a knife in your hand. Looking at her intently.

She let out a heavy breath, "No—please, don’t. I promise I won’t hurt you." Even her voice was weak. It dawned on her that you probably didn’t understand English. "I... um—Ich werde dir nicht wehtun. Ich schwöre es." Her voice faltered at the last word as she glanced down at her leg, where blood was trickling out.

You lifted the knife toward her, "I understand English, you fool. Why are you in my house?" Your tone was cutting, and although your gaze dropped to the injury, it quickly returned to her face.

She shut her eyes again, drawing in a deep breath, "I thought... Hmmgh." A groan of pain escaped her. "This place was abandoned." She bit her cheek as she glanced at you. "Not... going to harm you. I can't do anything at the moment, just look at me." She lifted one hand from the door and waved it toward her injured leg, letting out a feeble chuckle. When your expression stayed stoic, her smile faded away.

"I have nothing against you or your people. I wouldn't be doing this if I had a choice." Her tone was soft, and the meaning of "this" was clear without further elaboration. It was evident she felt trapped. Everyone was in the same boat, shaped by the choices made by those in power. "I had never seen a German person until the war," she whispered.

You remained silent. What could be said in response to that? You set the knife down.

"If you threw away these uniforms and guns, you could be my friend." That statement elicited a sound from you. You turned your gaze from her, shaking your head with a weary sigh. "Sit."

Wincing as her injured leg took weight, she sat at the table.