Henry stirred from the depths of sleep, awakening to the melodic strains of a feminine voice emanating from the radio. The gentle cadence of the singer’s voice bore an uncanny resemblance to the soothing tones of his mother, casting a transient warmth over the room.
Though the lyrics were in a foreign tongue, there was a strange familiarity that transcended language barriers. Henry found solace in the music, as if it were a lullaby beckoning him back into the realms of a profound slumber.
As the song unfolded, weaving its nostalgic tapestry, Henry remained ensconced in its embrace, his senses adrift in the memories of a home that once resonated with familial warmth. A house that sheltered a man called Dad, a woman called Mom, and siblings dubbed Sister and Brother. The routine of commuting from home to school, sharing meals, and drifting into sleep accompanied by his mother’s melodic serenades played out vividly in his mind.
However, the enchantment was shattered as realization dawned upon him. The comforting melody that had transported him was sung in the very foreign language that now ignited a burning resentment within him—Colsarian. The tranquil memories were eclipsed by the harsh reality of a stormy night and the unwelcome presence of those who spoke the language he had come to loathe.
It was time to shake off the dreams and confront the harsh reality that cloaked his world in shadows.
The recollection of the stormy night flooded back, chilling him to the bone as if immersed in icy waters. Henry, a master of survival, activated his instincts once more. The cherished childhood memories, briefly unfurled, were swiftly relegated back to the recesses of his mind, locked away again. Slowly, he opened his eyes, finding himself within the familiar confines of the house—the sanctuary sought amidst the tempest and the looming threat of the Colsarian army.
Questions lingered in the air, shrouded in uncertainty. Why had the occupant taken him in? Was there a clandestine purpose behind this unexpected hospitality, or were they plotting something more insidious than a mere handover to the Colsarian authorities?
Lying on a plush couch, Henry discovered himself cocooned in warmth beneath a thick, patchwork blanket. The fabric bore witness to its makeshift origins, a collage of different patterns and assorted clothes meticulously mended together. It was a tangible testament to resourcefulness and care.
Outside, the storm persisted, its relentless roar a testament to its enduring force. The tempest showed no signs of abating, threatening to extend its dominion for more than just a day.
Surveying the unfamiliar surroundings, Henry sought the source of the melodic voice he had heard singing along with the radio. His gaze landed on a woman, seated with her back to him in the kitchen. Engaged in the rhythmic act of peeling a vegetable that resembled a potato, she hummed and occasionally sang along to the lyrics from the radio.
As she made a move to face him, Henry instinctively closed his eyes, feigning slumber. It was a calculated gambit—an attempt to unravel the mystery of her motives for harboring an enemy soldier. He strained his ears for any sign of her attention, biding his time.
When he sensed no probing gaze, Henry cautiously reopened his eyes, finding the young woman turned away once more, tending to a pot on the stove. Grateful for the apparent hospitality, he couldn’t shake the ever-present threat looming over him. He remained within the confines of a Colsarian home, and the urgency to escape and return to Consehannon intensified.
With measured movements, he began to rise, his eyes fixed on the Colsarian woman to ensure she remained oblivious to his awakening.
Glancing down, Henry discovered bandages adorning his body. Clad only in a t-shirt and military pants, his right arm, head, and leg were meticulously wrapped. The unfamiliar scars and wounds told a story he couldn’t recall—a story she had tended to in his unconscious state.
His attention shifted to a basin on the coffee table, adorned with a drenched dirty and bloody cloth hanging on its side. Evidence of her meticulous care, she had undertaken the task of cleansing him, stripping away the mud and blood that clung to his battered form. Gratitude and suspicion coexisted within Henry—a complex cocktail of emotions as he grappled with the duality of the situation.
Henry’s eyes narrowed in contemplation. The Colsarian woman’s act of aiding him, an enemy from Consehannon, puzzled him. A soldier seasoned by the harsh realities of war, he found it difficult to fathom genuine kindness without an ulterior motive. Skepticism etched itself onto his features, a product of a lifetime shaped by the harshness of conflict.
Having witnessed the darker side of humanity through the lens of a soldier, Henry harbored a fundamental distrust. He believed that beneath even the most benevolent actions lurked hidden agendas. The tendrils of war had woven a narrative of deceit and betrayal, making it challenging for him to let down his guard, especially in the company of an adversary.
A surge of questions flooded his mind. Was this an orchestrated strategy, designed to lull him into a false sense of security before an impending betrayal? Could it be a cunning ploy to turn him against his own nation, exploiting the vulnerabilities of a defector? The possibilities unfolded like a tactical chessboard in Henry’s mind, and he clenched his teeth in defiance. He wouldn’t succumb to manipulation, not by the seemingly innocent gestures of a young woman.
Discovering that he still possessed his firearm, tucked away in one of his pants’ pockets, Henry acknowledged the woman’s oversight with a silent gratitude.
Silently, he rose, a calculated dance to avoid alerting the Colsarian woman to his awakening. She remained absorbed in her cooking, oblivious to the brewing storm within Henry.
Closing the distance between them, he raised the gun, its cold metal reflecting the gravity of the situation. With the striker cocked, he directed the weapon towards her head, disrupting the tranquil humming with a palpable tension.
“Scream, and I won’t hesitate to end it right here, right now,” Henry warned, the threat hanging in the air.
In truth, he had no intention of causing harm unless forced to defend himself from a perceived threat.
“I, I see, you’re awake,” Sarah replied, her voice steady despite the invisible weight of a gun pressed against her head from behind.
Attempting to maintain a facade of normalcy and bravery, Sarah convinced herself that his reaction was a natural response to the circumstances. With an unwavering belief in the inherent goodness of humanity, she chose to trust that, out of gratitude for her assistance, he wouldn’t inflict harm upon her and her daughter.
“You must be hungry,” Sarah continued, swallowing the lump in her throat as she resumed stirring the potato porridge she had been preparing, “Why don’t you eat first?”
She turned around to face her unexpected guest, only to be met with a pair of intense light gray eyes, akin to ash, burning with disdain. His gaze bore into her as if she had committed an unforgivable offense.
“I know what you’re doing, woman,” he responded sternly, aiming the gun at her head once again, “What exactly are you playing at here?”
Sarah marveled at his seamless Colsarian accent, surprised at his fluency in their language. Despite her straightforward answer, stating that she had found him wounded on her doorstep and had offered help, he showed no signs of belief or any intention to lower his weapon.
“And why would you do that? What are you planning? Spill it.”
Avoiding his penetrating gaze, Sarah hesitated. She did have a plan, but it was one she doubted he’d welcome after showing him kindness.
“What?! Answer!”
“Shh!” she shushed him, swiftly moving into one of the rooms of the house. Henry, his gun still trained on her, followed, but Sarah appeared undeterred.
Opening the door, she checked on someone inside, exhaling in relief seconds later.
Thank goodness she didn’t wake up with the commotion, Sarah thought, seeing Daisy still peacefully asleep amid the turmoil that had unfolded.
Henry cautiously peered through the slightly ajar door, catching sight of a little girl nestled in her bed, cradling a cherished doll in her arms.
Sarah turned sharply, fixing him with a stern gaze that contrasted sharply with the frightened expression she wore in the kitchen just moments before.
“You nearly roused my daughter from her slumber. Do you grasp the difficulty it takes to lull her into dreams?” Sarah scolded, much to Henry’s astonishment.
Is she truly serious at this moment? Is that her paramount concern? Can she not discern that I’m brandishing a firearm in her direction, with the capacity to unleash its lethal force at any given instant?
Sarah let out a deep sigh, her expression shifting to one of seriousness tempered with a calming demeanor. She met Henry’s eyes, addressing the palpable mistrust.
“Look, I understand, it’s hard to be in this crazy predicament you’re in, and you don’t trust me. And that’s fine; it’s reasonable. I’d react the same if I crossed the border to Consehannon,” Sarah stated. “But I can assure you, with all my life, I don’t plan on turning you in. You needed help, and I gave it.”
“But I’m Consehannon, you’re a Colsarian.”
“And we’re both human beings who came from the same creator and are birthed in this world in the same way, aren’t we? And bore the same fate when it comes to death. That’s all I care about.”
Henry’s arm, still holding the gun, wavered in response to her words. It was a perspective that resonated, leaving him grappling for a counterargument.
She was just being kind, a simple truth that he found difficult to refute.
A subtle pang reverberated in Henry’s chest—not guilt, he adamantly asserted. He couldn’t allow himself to feel remorse for the harsh words or the gun he had aimed at her. If it resembled guilt in any way, he refused to acknowledge it.