He remembered.

He knew her face.

Her golden hair.

Her honeyed eyes.

He knew her.

She was 16, an orphan of the war, her parents killed in the first bomb strike.  She stood in the barracks the day he joined the war efforts, terrified and trembling in a blood and soot stained white dress with no shoes.  Her feet were bloody and worse for wear, but she wasn ( Read more... )