Chapter 1
The war:
War was never merely the thunder of cannons or the roar of artillery. It was something far greater, far deeper. It was the silence that settled over hearts scarred by pain. It was the empty chairs gathered around a dining table in a home whose door remained open, waiting for its loved ones to return—only for them never to come back, or for the home itself to vanish beneath a single blow that shattered innocent hearts which had done nothing to deserve such a fate.
War was never confined to the deafening roar of cannons or the relentless echo of gunfire. It was something far more profound, far more merciless. He lived in the silence that lingered after hearts had been broken beyond repair. It was found in the empty chairs surrounding a dinner table, in a house whose door remained open, patiently waiting for the footsteps of those who would never return. And sometimes, even that fragile hope was stolen, when the house itself disappeared beneath a single devastating strike, leaving behind only shattered walls and innocent hearts that had never deserved such cruelty.
The streets had come to remember the names of the dead more faithfully than those of the living. They remembered them more vividly than the tiny footsteps of a child racing across the snow on a cold Christmas night, more than the laughter of children running joyfully through the streets beneath the warmth of a summer sun, more than the watchful eyes of a loving mother following every step her child took.
Until survival itself became a burden too heavy for the heart to bear, and no blessing God had bestowed could ever seem enough to lighten its weight.
How many mothers have stood at their doorsteps, clutching worn handkerchiefs, their tears falling in silence as they bid farewell to their sons? How many wives have watched their husbands disappear into the distance, never knowing whether that goodbye would be their last?
These are the true victims of war. Civilians who lose the people they love. Children robbed of the fathers they looked upon as heroes, their shelter, and their strength. Elderly fathers whose backs were broken not by age, but by the unbearable grief of burying a son. Innocent souls who died without guilt. The dreams of young men dissolved into the air, sacrificed for land, for country, for the fear of losing those they loved or leaving them behind.
They surrendered their futures in the name of love.
But was it truly love...
Or was it fear, wearing love’s face?
Those who call themselves the great powers claim that the lands of God belong to them. Yet no land belongs to mankind. It belongs to God alone—and to those who cherish it, protect it, and allow it to flourish.
They strike the earth, but it is hearts they truly destroy.
And amid all the suffering of humanity, how many voiceless creatures have endured the same agony? How many animals have been swept into a war they never chose? How many trees longed only to remain rooted in the soil, offering their fruit, their shade, and their quiet generosity so that humanity might live?
Yet they, too, were cut down—powerless, defenseless, and forgotten.
For they were living beings well.
The Village, 1901
Vivian shifted the heavy bucket of water onto her shoulder. She was late today.
She had spent longer than usual tending to the wounded whenever she could—a skill her mother and grandmother had taught her since the war had begun so many years ago.
Curfew would begin in less than fifteen minutes, and that was exactly how long it would take her to reach the crumbling house she called home.
Still, a small sense of relief settled over her. She was not the only one left outside.
A woman hurried along with her three daughters and young son. Five men followed, their arms burdened with freshly cut firewood gathered from the nearby trees. Everyone was making the same desperate journey home.
Surely the soldiers would not punish all of them for being a few minutes late.
At least, that was what everyone wanted to believe.
Not before the soldiers’ truck came rumbling down the road.
It screeched to a halt only a minute away from their homes.
A gunshot cracked through the air.
The bullet struck the ground before them—not to kill, but to remind them that it could.
No one moved.
Then one of the soldiers stepped forward, a crooked smile spreading across his face.“Well... look what we have here”
One of the men cautiously took a step forward. Perhaps he could reason with them. Perhaps not for his own sake, but for the women standing behind him, clutching their buckets of water with trembling hands.
“Please, sir,” he pleaded, lowering his head. “We’re only a step away from our homes. It won’t happen again. I swear it never will.”
The soldier let out a bitter laugh and glanced at his companion. He flicked the remainder of his cigarette onto the ground and crushed it beneath his boot, just as they had been crushing the people beneath their heels for years.
Then he stepped forward.
With a brutal swing, his fist slammed into the man’s stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. The man doubled over, struggling to breathe.
“We give you filth the freedom to wander all day,” the soldier sneered. “And you still can’t follow the rules. That’s your problem.”
The blow was powerful enough to send the man crashing to the ground. Whether he fell from the force of the punch or the pain it left behind hardly mattered.
The soldier lifted his boot, ready to kick him again.
Before he could, another soldier caught him by the shoulder.
“Don’t,” he said calmly. “They’ll all get what’s coming to them.”
He turned toward the others and motioned to the soldiers standing nearby.
“Round them up,” he ordered. “Bring them to the truck.”
Terror gripped every heart.
How many had been taken before them?
No one knew.
No one had ever returned to tell them where they had been taken—or what had become of them.
All they could hear was the relentless creak of the wagon’s wheels grinding against the dirt road, the crunch of stones beneath its weight, and the suffocating silence trapped behind the blindfolds covering their eyes. Every minute stretched into what felt like a year, and each step carried them closer to ruin, closer to a fate no one could name. No one knew where they were being taken, or whether they would ever see another dawn. For a time, the soldiers mocked their misery. Then came silence—absolute, unnerving silence. Nearly ten hours later, new sounds slowly filled their ears: women chatting as they passed along the road, the joyful cries of children, merchants calling out from a bustling marketplace. Surely, this had to be heaven. Perhaps they had already died. Yet with their eyes still covered, they could not know what lay before them. Was this paradise meant for them, or were they merely passing through it on their way to hell? No one could say. Perhaps that, too, was part of their fate.
Then the wagon came to a halt. Not the brief pause of traffic or a rough road, but a long, deliberate stop that carried the weight of death itself. Moments later, they were dragged out by their arms with brutal force, accompanied by curses foul enough to dishonor mothers and fathers alike. Ironically, being seized by their arms was perhaps the most human kindness they would receive there. The dragging continued for what felt like five endless minutes along a path that was no longer dirt. Then came a flight of stairs, followed by the echo of heavy, hollow sounds surrounding them. At last, a voice broke the silence. “You’re fortunate to have arrived during the day.” No one could tell whether those words were meant for the soldiers or the prisoners. And no one knew whether arriving in daylight was truly a blessing... or the beginning of something far worse.
They were thrown onto the cold floor one after another. The men were forced into a line at the front, the women behind them in a straight row. Moments later, the air filled with the scent of cigarette smoke—not the harsh, cheap kind, but something richer, almost refined.
“Take the men to the resort,” a voice ordered.
A chorus of cruel laughter followed. Whatever this place was, it bore no resemblance to a resort.
Then a mother’s cry pierced the room.
“Please... my son. He’s only a child.”
Another burst of laughter answered her panic.
“Old enough to carry a bomb onto his own land,” one of the soldiers replied coldly.
The men were dragged away without resistance. They did not scream. They did not beg for their lives. Only the boy cried out, his sobs breaking into desperate gasps as he called for his mother again and again. In the end, he was only a child—born into the heart of war, never given the chance to know what a peaceful life felt like.
The blindfolds were removed from the women.
Two men stood before them— the two wearing insignia that marked their rank, the other a plain soldier standing slightly behind.
A heavy silence stretched across the room, longer than anything the women had ever known. They lay on the ground, weeping quietly, trapped in helpless despair.
“What do you usually do with them?” one of the two men asked the soldier.“We send them to the soldiers’ quarters, sir, Brigadier ,” came the reply.
The other man’s eyes moved slowly over the frightened women on the floor. His gaze lingered for a moment as they sobbed in silence.
Then he stepped forward, studying them as if making a decision.
A faint smile crossed the Brigadier’s face.
“Of course,” he said. “We can send them all... except one, Alexander.”
Alexander he id the other man standing without a word .
Alexander knelt down to the girl’s level, bringing himself into her line of sight. He looked into her eyes—not with the same coldness shared by the others standing behind him, but with something deeper, heavier, as if her gaze itself carried a thousand unanswered questions.
Questions he had spent years trying to ask the world, only to find that every answer remained out of reach.
For a long moment, he simply watched her in silence.
Then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, he spoke.
“Is your name Marilyn?”
Before the girl could answer, he rose to his feet, seized her wrist, and pulled her forward with firm control—harsh in intent, but not in cruelty.
“Take them all,” he ordered, his voice steady and commanding, cutting through the room with authority that reached even those above his rank. “Leave this girl.”
The command fell like stone. No one questioned it.
Fear rippled through the girl’s body; she trembled violently under his grip.
“My name isn’t that,” she said, her voice breaking between softness and sharp defiance.
But no one listened. Not to her words. Not to the tremor in her voice.
The voices of the weak are easily drowned beneath the hands of the powerful—especially those who wield power without mercy.
