I was walking home through the quiet Dutch street, clutching a sack of flour and eggs from my uncle’s farm. Since the war began, my father’s bakery had been running low, every loaf counted, every crumb precious. What I carried was not much, but it was enough for six breads and one baguette, a small blessing.

As I turned onto the narrow street near home, I noticed a soldier crossing ahead of me. His uniform looked English, but I stayed cautious and slowed my steps. Then I heard boots behind me. He approached carefully, not too close. He looked thin, though not sickly, with kind eyes and dark blond hair beneath his helmet. His voice was quiet when he spoke, carrying a gentle accent. Miss, he said, I’m sorry to trouble you, but I seem to be lost. Could you tell me which way leads to the main road?