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EVENTUALLY, IN THE END,
FLOWERS WILT

|| AMOR VINCIT OMNIA

MASTERS OF THE AIR

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WISCONSIN
UNITED STATES
JANUARY 31ST, 1946

      || OH,  A DANCE WITH THE WHIMS OF WINDS, AS THE MORNING SUN PAINTED A GOLDEN HUE UPON THE WALLS. Celeste, having been up since the early hours, delved into the depths of scholarly realm—nourishing her mind with the wisdom of anthropological wonders. Before going about her daily chores of dusting and tending to Nugget.

But fate, with its capricious ways, chose that moment to whisper the sweet song of motherhood into the brunette's heart. A sudden sensation, like a gentle tremor in the earth, stirred within her—disrupting the tranquil existence she had cultivated with such care.

With a sudden gasp escaping from her lips, she felt the warmth slipping through her grasp. She quickly stopped what she was doing—her heart sinking immediately. It began dripping down her legs, a steady warmth that trickled down till it reached her shoes.

It was then where she shakily placed her hand down against the liquid. Raising it up, Celeste let out a sharp cry. Memories of that past pain, where the shadows at Ravensbrück started haunting all over again.

"No...no!" she screamed out in a voice fraught with fear—hands trembling as she reached for the telephone. With a frantic urgency, she went to dial Egan's work but stopped, not wanting to cause unneeded panic. So, hesitant...she dialed the number of her neighbor—an older matron who held years upon her shoulders.

The neighbor Glenda, drawn by Celeste's desperate plea, rushed over with bated breath. She had been a nurse during the Great War and had fought a many trying to save. This one wasn't ready to lose another. The white haired lady entered the abode, quite breathless—heaving over with her hands upon her knees.

"Please... tell me everything will be okay..." Celeste pleaded between soft sobs. She had collapsed to the floor, her hands cradling her swollen belly. "No please, don't take my baby..." she pleaded once more, sucking in frantic gasps.

The older women quickly knelt before the brunette, her wrinkled hand resting upon the bulging belly. Her blue eyes scanning Celeste's legs, before a knowing smile formed upon her lips—one that belied the gravity of the moment.

But Celeste, in the throes of a tumultuous sea of emotions, rebuked her with a fervor born of fear and anger. "It is not funny..." she whispered, her voice a fragile thread in the tapestry of the room's stillness. "I could be losing my..." Celeste choked out, remembering all to well what happened At Ravensbrück.

The elder woman, with a grace that bespoke a lifetime of sorrows and joys intertwined, placed a comforting hand upon Celeste's shoulder—her eyes alight.

"My dear," she began, her voice a soothing balm to Celeste's troubled soul. "I have had a many children in my lifetime. I know this babe is eager to greet the world, to grace us with its presence."

Celeste's eyes widened, a blend of joy and anxiety, the realization dawning upon her with a clarity that was both exhilarating and daunting. The time had come for her to embrace the mantle of motherhood—to welcome the new life that stirred within her with open arms. This both made her excited and frightened...

When the question of the hospital arose, Celeste shook her head. " I will not be in that terrible place. I will not be closed in..." Celeste uttered in exasperation. Instead, she had been reading up on midwives and how they made stay at home births better. So, she preferred to have them come instead of the sterile walls of the hospital. Glenda was commanded to call the number Celeste had circled on the paper—one she had ripped out of a magazine.

The elderly woman, with a gentle acquiescence to Celeste's wishes, summoned the midwives with an urgency that mirrored the pulse of life itself.

Celeste settled in comfortably on master bedroom bed, of course—after Glenda placed a blanket under her and tons of pillows for her back. And as the hour unfurled like petals in bloom, Celeste awaited the arrival of her child with a courage that eclipsed the shadows of the past.

  || EGAN HADN'T BEEN AT HIS JOB VERY LONG WHEN HE WAS SUMMONED BACK TO THEIR HOUSE. Without a moment's pause for inquiry or hesitation, the valiant Egan sprang forth from his sturdy-seated desk, abandoning the confines of his work with a single-minded focus that brooked no delay.

His new colleagues, mere acquaintances in the vast tapestry of his life, bore witness to his sudden departure, his fervent declaration ringing in their ears like a clarion call.

"I am to be a father!" he exclaimed with unbridled jubilation, his voice reverberating through the halls with a joy that knew no bounds. His very being seemed to pulse with an energy born of elation as he bounded forth, unable to contain the sheer delight that coursed through his veins. "I can't believe it! I'm gonna be a father!" He yelled again, pumping his hands up and down as he ran through the halls.

Once arriving home, he barely had time to place his car into park before jumping out of it. Upon entering, Egan was met not only with the nods of nurses but also with the scathing venom of his beloved wife's tongue lashing. She was a tempestuous force to be reckoned with—those fiery words cutting through the air like a sharpened blade.

A midwife, stationed beside the door, beheld the scene with a serene countenance—her lips upturned in a knowing semblance of amusement as she intently regarded Egan's eyes widening in astonishment.

"Do not worry about her words just the course of nature," she gently interjected, her voice a calming lull amidst the maelstrom of distress. "Most spouses exhibit such fiery spirits in such times."

Egan meekly smiled, before impatiently awaiting outside the master bedroom—fraught with trepidation as the sonorous echoes of Celeste's distress ebbed into a lingering quietude. Each fleeting moment stretched unbearably long, a confluence of anxiety and prayer intertwined as he awaited word of his wife's welfare.

At the threshold of deliverance, a resounding call to action urged forth from the lips of one of the attendants, punctuating the stillness before yielding to a profound silence. Egan, impelled by an unyielding need to protect, moved to lay his hand upon the door's handle—a gesture stymied by the midwife's timely intervention.

"No, major...you can not go in there yet.." she faintly protested, her admonition cut short as Egan brushed aside her hand with firm resolve. "My place is beside my wife, I promised her I would always be..." he declared resolutely, a steadfast determination etched upon his countenance as he pushed open the portal to behold the scene within.

There, amidst the dimly lit chamber, Celeste lay pallid and fatigued—the very essence of vitality seemingly drained from her visage. Yet, within her gaze shone a fierceness , undiminished by the trials of labor. There she tenderly pressed a delicate finger to the rosebud lips of the newborn nestled in her embrace.

Egan, drawn by an invisible tether, knelt beside her bedside, his trembling hand seeking hers—lifting it tenderly to his lips for a soft kiss.

The rhythmic ticking of an old brass clock marked time quietly—entwined with the tender breaths of the newborn nestled between her parents.

"A daughter..." Celeste muttered quite breathlessly, her lids fluttering heavily as she gazed upon the man she had utterly fallen for. Egan smiled with a softness, those blue eyes of his darting back from her to the babe.

"Here..." Celeste finally says, lifting her arms gently over, offering the little one towards her father.

Egan sat motionless, cradling Annie with a reverence reserved for sacred relics. The uniform he wore—a tapestry of valor stitched with threads of duty—contrasted starkly against the fragile innocence swaddled in his arms. His fingertips, calloused from gripping the cockpit controls, now traced the delicate curve of Annie's cheek—marveling at the silken warmth beneath.

Celeste, propped against pillows, watched with a quiet intensity. Her heart swelled, not just from the birth but from the transformation she witnessed in Egan. The man who had weathered storms both literal and metaphorical now unraveled in the presence of their daughter.

"Do you think she'll remember this?" Egan's voice broke the silence, low and earnest.

Celeste chuckled softly, the sound mingling with the morning air like a cherished lullaby. "Perhaps not." She chuckled with a short cough after. Hearing that made Egan shutter slightly, making him sit down upon the bedside.

The major lean in closer, his forehead now resting gently against Celeste's. "I never knew something so small could hold the entirety of my heart."

Moments later, as Annie drifted into sleep, Egan carefully placed her in the wooden cradle carved by his own hands during nights haunted by distant battles. The cradle creaked softly, a lullaby of its own, as Annie's breathing deepened.

Egan wrapped his arm around Celeste, pulling her close. "She's a cutie."

Celeste nodded, her eyes glistening. "Just like her mother." He added. The brunette let out a light scoff at her husband's words, a teasing smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Oh, the poet here."

As the atmosphere in the room settled into a comfortable silence, interrupted only by the newborn's gentle sounds, the head nurse made her entrance—clad a crisp white uniform.

"Hello, Mrs. Egan, how are you feeling?" she inquired, her tone gentle and reassuring as she took a seat on the edge of the bed—her eyes filled with an unmistakable warmth.

Celeste, still somewhat ensconced in a haze induced by the whirlwind of emotions that had gripped her in the wake of the child's arrival, muttered softly, "Well, like I've fallen out of my C-47 again." Her words, though tinged with a hint of self-deprecation, carried a sense of resilience that spoke volumes of the trials she had weathered in her past.

The nurse's face lit up at Celeste's response, a spark of recognition igniting in her eyes. "Ah, you were a WAAC, weren't you? No wonder you have the heart of a fighter," she remarked, her admiration evident in her words as she regarded Celeste with newfound respect.

"Yes I was..." Celeste muttered, as though there was a part of her that missed the flying.

With a sigh, the head nurse began again, " So are there anything you are allergic too?" Celeste chuckled half heartily, " Yes, to dicks." She muttered lightly, trying to sit herself up against the lump of pillows.

"Oh my dear, aren't we all..." the head nurse chuckled, her laughter a soft melody echoing against the oak walls. But then, as if shadowed by an unseen cloud, her smile wavered, slipping into a somber curve that made Celeste's heart tighten.

"My dear," the nurse continued gently, her voice now a careful hush, as though speaking too loudly might unravel the fragile threads of fate. She reached out, her fingers cool yet comforting, wrapping around Celeste's trembling hand. The warmth of that simple touch was both grounding and foreboding.

"You must be careful," the nurse said, her eyes darkening with an honesty Celeste wasn't ready to face. "These pregnancies... they're a tremendous strain on you. Especially with your heart." She paused, as if weighing words too heavy to speak. "It's not as strong as it once was."

The words hung in the air, sharp and undeniable, sinking into the spaces Celeste had tried to keep untouched. She stared past the nurse, her vision blurring slightly, not from tears but from the weight of truths she had refused to acknowledge.

And Celeste would learn this in many forms, unfortunately—through silent nights punctuated by the echo of her own heartbeat, through fragile moments when the world tilted dangerously, and through the persistent shadow of a fear she could never quite outrun.

Anna Egan was born on a crisp winter morning, January 30th, 1946, her first cry mingling with the soft hush of snowflakes blanketing the earth. Just over two years later, in the gentle bloom of May 1948, her sister Katherine arrived, her presence a delicate echo of joy in the Egan household. Though Celeste and Egan had been blessed with these two radiant daughters, fate proved to be a fickle companion. Their hearts yearned for a fuller chorus of laughter, for more footsteps to echo through the hallways, but Anna and Katherine remained the sole blossoms in the fragile garden of Celeste's maternal dreams.

The shadows of what might have been haunted Celeste like silent phantoms, etched deep into the chambers of her heart. Each fleeting hope, each silent prayer unfulfilled, carved fissures into her spirit as fragile as spun glass. The ache of emptiness gnawed at her, an invisible wound that bled quietly beneath the surface of her poised exterior. Her dreams, once vivid with the hues of possibility, lay shattered, their fragments scattered across the landscape of her soul.

On certain days, when the ache grew heavy, Celeste sought refuge in solitude. She would retreat behind the locked door of the lavatory, her silent tears mingling with the quiet drip of the faucet, or wander beneath the sprawling limbs of ancient oak trees. Their gnarled branches seemed to murmur forgotten tales, their roots entwined with the secrets of generations past. In these hushed sanctuaries, she found a fragile solace, a brief reprieve from the relentless tide of grief.

Yet, even amidst the darkness, a beacon of light shone steadfastly—Egan, her husband, her anchor. A man of quiet strength, his love spoke not through grand gestures but through enduring presence. His heart bore its own scars, invisible yet profound, and in his unwavering support, he crafted a tribute to their lost children—a rose garden. This sanctuary blossomed with the vibrant hues of remembrance, each bloom a testament to love undiminished by absence.

With tender hands, Anna and Katherine joined their parents, planting each rose with a solemn grace that transcended their tender years. Their small fingers pressed roots into the earth, weaving innocence with grief, hope with remembrance. As the seasons turned, the garden flourished. Crimson, blush, and ivory petals unfurled under the watchful gaze of the summer sun, each bloom whispering stories of love, loss, and resilience.

With hands calloused by the toil of grief, Celeste tended to the roses with a devotion that bordered on obsession. The neighbors, with envy in their gaze and awe in their voices, marveled at the splendor of the garden. Never knowing the true reason behind it...

Yet, this never stopped her from showering her daughters with affection and adoration—lavishing upon them the treasures of the heart. Filling their days with laughter and light, their nights with lullabies.

For Celeste, there existed no respite from the vigilance of motherhood, a sentinel watching over her daughters with unwavering devotion, guarding their innocence with a fierceness born of the depths of her own anguish. And so she danced with them beneath the honey glow of the sun, rode with them through the emerald fields, and teach them how to drive.

Eventually, because of Egan remaining in the military, the family of four would move to Hawaii and stay there for a few years before finally moving to Virginia. Whilst there, Celeste would travel to her childhood home in Pennsylvania. To be blessed with sight of large meadows and beautiful lakes. Ti see the mansion sat upon a half circle driveway—surrounded weeping willows.

There she'd teach them along side Egan how to fly like she had when younger. Even Arnie, when he had time, would join in on the fun. By that time, he and Rene had a little boy. A youngster who loved everything with butterflies and lightening bugs.

So whilst, her girls fiddled around with the plane, he was out trying to chase insects. Celeste's father had kept an old bi-plane for the First World War—the very one he had flown. By that time, Colonel Jefferson fully retired from the military. And wasn't afraid in retelling his stories of adventures with his grandchildren Katherine and Annie.

The girls adored hearing the tales of their grandfather's exploits in the Great War. He was a great storyteller, perhaps a tad over exaggerated—but the stories of France, Paris— always enlightened the them.

Now for another story time, their parents were a different kind—neither really talked about the second world war. Celeste would mutter somethings about being China and the flying tigers, but that was it. Egan would do the same, talking about his time with the 100th in East Anglia. But really, he always boosted about beating the British RAF pilots at the bars.

Because of their service, both did remain in the military—though Celeste was shortly honorably discharged in 1947 after failing a health check. Her heart just wasn't healthy enough. So, while Egan could to fly missions, Celeste never get the chance again.

During the Korean War, John Egan was commander of the 67th Reconnaissance Group, 5th Air Force in Korea. While in Korea, he flew B-26 bombers in close support missions against North Korean ground forces. Egan later became director of operations for the Pacific Air Force while stationed in Hawaii in 1956. Since 1958, Egan was then assigned to the Pentagon working on a classified project.

And yes, Egan got that house with the white picket fence out front and a large kitchen to cook Lady Qin's soup in. Admittedly, it was quite hard at first but with the girls helping to cut the vegetables and him tending to the meat—it came together.

Celeste took her downtime to write about the women in Ravensbrück, finishing their names before mailing them to Europe. In hopes of helping to bring some families relief. Because of her work at coding their names, and the length she went to explain what had happened in that horrible labor camp—Josef Wolffe was tracked down and put to trial. He was found guilty in July of 1946 and was sentenced to a firing squad.

Many others in command at the camp, joined him—thus bringing a true end to the nightmare. Egan would never stop looking for Ana, he exhausted just about every resource to find her.

Celeste would remain friends with her crew of French kiss till the very end. For Arnie and Jackson, the chapters of military life closed with a quiet resignation, their wings clipped by the dictates of time and duty—their hearts heavy with the weight of unspoken farewells.

Jackson settled back in Boston, finding himself working at desk job of all things. He eventually found someone willing to out up with his antics.

Robert returned back to his home, becoming a taxi driver and settling down in 1949. Ben, was the last of the crew. He became an author and wrote for the newspaper in his small town. Each would call another, just to make jokes of which Celeste would always roll her eyes and hang up.

And so it was that the Chief Leader decided that the time had come to reignite the flames of her long-lost passion for anthropology. After years of selflessly dedicating herself to the needs of the military, she promised the indulgence of resuming her studies—which she had forsaken in 1939.

In 1955, Celeste found herself embarking on an expedition to the distant encampments of Africa, where the echoes of ancient civilizations and the footprints of the Homo Sapiens and other diverse species lingered.

Upon her triumphant return, Celeste devoted her attention to the task of compiling her collection of anthropological artifacts and findings together. It was only then she finally arranged her old journal's weathered pages into a binder. Each sheet adorned with intricate sketches, detailed observations, and the recorded names of fallen comrades she had encountered in China. Including that of the Frankie, whose memory haunted her like a specter in the night.

But the most memorable, was delicately placed within the binder was a singular triangular artifact, a relic tainted with the shadows—the emblem bestowed upon her during her imprisonment at Ravensbrück. Though the mere sight of it stirred a turmoil of conflicting emotions within her, Celeste understood the profound significance it held for generations yet unborn—a reminder of the sacrifices made, the lives lost, and the enduring resilience of the human spirit in the face of evil.

As she gazed upon the triangle's tarnished surface, Celeste reflected upon the profound wisdom embedded in the annals of history—the timeless adage that those who fail to heed its lessons are condemned to relive its darkest chapters. And in that moment of profound introspection, she pledged herself to be a vigilant custodian of the past, a beacon of enlightenment for future generations, so that the mistakes of yesterday would not become the tragedies of tomorrow.

   In the bleak winter of 1961, an unforgiving shadow descended upon the home of Celeste and Egan, casting long tendrils of sorrow into every corner. The once vibrant house, filled with echoes of laughter and the warm murmur of shared dreams, now stood hollow in the aftermath. As the clock struck its indifferent hour, marking the untimely passing of John Egan at the tender age of 45.

Some say when Celeste received the call, she did not cry, only freezing in place. Like her training had kicked in and she couldn't let their daughters see her like that. Whilst others spoke of her falling down to her knees at his funeral, where her knee buckled underneath.

John's absence was not just the fading of a life but one of love, companionship, and whispered promises under starlit skies. Celeste, once the radiant heart of their bustling life, found herself adrift in an ocean of grief. The funeral procession moved with solemn grace, each step a tribute to a life extinguished too soon, each tear a testament to the void left behind.

Standing beside John's casket, Celeste's grief was a palpable force, her sapphire eyes clouded with a tempest of sorrow. The polished wood, dark and unyielding, reflected distorted glimpses of a life that was—now reduced to memories and fragile echoes.

Her fingers, delicate yet trembling, traced the grain of the casket as if seeking the warmth of the man it cradled. "How could you do this to me?" she murmured, her voice a fragile thread woven with despair and disbelief, rising like incense to a heaven that seemed deaf to her pleas. "You vowed never to leave before me, yet here I stand, adrift and alone."

Kneeling beside the casket, the earth beneath her knees cold and unyielding, Celeste bowed her head, surrendering to the storm within. Her whispered words were a fragile bridge between the living and the departed, tinged with both reproach and enduring love. "Damn it, John, your promises were as fleeting as the morning dew," she uttered, a bittersweet smile trembling through her tears—a fragile testament to a love both eternal and ephemeral, etched indelibly upon the fragile parchment of her broken heart.

As Egan was interned in Arlington National Cemetery, a friend emerged from the shadows of grief to offer solace to Celeste in her hour of need. Cleven, a companion bound by the ties of loyalty and love, vowed to watch over her and daughters.

"I made a promise to Egan," he declared, his voice a steadfast beacon in the tempest of mourning. "I shall honor his memory by watching over those he held most dear."

Through the ebb and flow of passing years, Celeste chose the path of a steadfast widow, her heart forever entwined with the memory of a love lost but never forgotten. Annie and Katherine, the fruits of her union with Egan, blossomed into young women of grace and fortitude—their futures unfurling like petals in the springtime of life.

Amidst the sorrow that adorned her days, Celeste endured further trials of heartache, bidding farewell to her father Colonel Jefferson in 1965 and laying to rest their cherished feline companion Nugget in 1963. The twin shadows of bereavement that haunted her steps, the loss of husband and pet intertwined in a web of bittersweet memories, their absence a palpable ache that resonated within the caverns of her soul.

And so, in the quiet moments of solitude and reflection, Celeste found solace in the whispers of the past, the echoes of a love eternal that transcended the boundaries of time and space. With each passing day, she carried within her heart that bond of a man who broke through her walls.

And though the winds of change may scatter the petals of memory upon the winds of time, the flame kindled by John Egan's undying persistence burned continued to live on. Though she'd live on longer than she had known him....But it wasn't long until Celeste would join him again.

And that time would come sooner than later. As the days wandered wearily into months, the once vibrant heartbeat of Celeste grew faint and feeble, burdened by the weight of two pregnancies that had drained her very essence. With each passing day, the flickering flame sputtered weakly, casting long shadows of despair over the manor. Her health mirrored the wilting beauty of the roses in the now overgrown garden.

In the waning days of November, a somber veil descended upon as whispers of impending tragedy fluttered like autumn leaves in the chilling wind. Katherine, the youngest daughter and a devoted soul, clung to her mother's side like a fragile blossom clinging to a withered stem. Celeste, once a vision of strength and grace, now lay bedridden, her once sparkling eyes dulled.

Denied even the sustenance of a meager supper, Celeste turned her gaze away from the offerings of nourishment—her whispered words carrying the weight of finality. "I am ready," she uttered, her voice but a mere echo of its former self. The breath that once filled her with life now faltered, unable to carry her from the confines of her sickbed.

Annie soon joined Katherine, both faithful daughters, stood as silent sentinels—their hearts heavy with sorrow as they watched their beloved mother slip away like grains of sand through an hourglass. Celeste, a warrior in her own right, clung tenaciously to the thread of life for the sake of her precious children—a flicker of determination alight in her fading eyes.

Word of Celeste's decline reached the ears of Arnie. With his wife, Rene, at his side, they hastened to his dearest friend in her hour of need. It was there a promise that fell from his lips, to safeguard her daughters as she had safeguarded him. It brought a fleeting sense of peace to Celeste's weary soul.

And there upon a bed of white linen, amidst a chamber adorned with soft lace curtains billowing gently in the breeze—her countenance was as delicate as a lily.

With a few labor breaths, Celeste's eyes fluttered open slightly, her head tilting to the side ever so gently, as if beckoned by an unseen force. The room was hushed, save for the distant rumble of an aircraft gracing the sky above, its metallic wings slicing through the clouds like a silver arrow.

A weak smile made its fleeting appearance across Celeste's pale lips, like a wistful whisper of a forgotten melody. With trembling fingers, she tried to point to the heavens—-her voice a mere whisper carried on the wings of a dying breeze.

"Do you hear that?" she murmured, her voice a mere echo of its former strength. "Egan has come to call me home... the boys are there waiting for me... Frankie... all of them..."

Annie held her mother's other hand tightly in hers, tears streaming down her pale cheeks like crystalline rivers. Her grief was a palpable presence in the room, thick as the mist that shrouded the moors on a foggy morning.

"You can go, Mom," Annie choked out between sobs, her voice a fragile thread on the verge of snapping. Just as Celeste slowly raised her hand to cup her daughter's tear stricken cheek, " My little girl..."

Katherine sniffled loudly as she fell down to her knees, her hands shaking to found her mother's. Annie held Celeste's tightly, before whispering, " We'll be okay... go be with Dad."

Celeste swallowed shallowly before using all the strength left within her frail body to place a kiss upon Annie and Katherine's fore heads—just as Egan had done to her. With an exhausted heave, she collapsed back with a huff—gazing at her daughters for one last time, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears—her love for them a beacon in the gathering darkness. With a stutter that escaped her parched lips, she whispered her final farewell.

As the distant hum of the aircraft filled the room once more, its steady drone weaving through the quiet like a solemn hymn, Celeste closed her eyes. A sense of peace, profound and tender, descended upon her like a silken shroud woven from the threads of memories and whispered promises. The faint scent of lavender lingered, a ghost of summers long past, mingling with the sterile, metallic tang of the present.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken words and the echoes of battles fought within the confines of her heart and mind, she let out a final exhale. Her spirit, unburdened at last, took flight on wings of ethereal light, shimmering faintly as if kissed by the dawn's first rays. The room grew still, as if the universe itself paused to honor the passage of a soul so fiercely luminous.

Chief Leader Celeste Jefferson Egan was pronounced dead on November 25th, 1966, just two days before her 47th birthday. To many, she had fought long and hard—not against the ravages of time, but against the silent, shadowy pain that had haunted her for decades. It was a battle marked not by grand gestures but by the quiet resilience that defined her life. But now, the relentless ache had finally ended, and perhaps, she could be whole and happy again, embraced by the warmth of eternity.

She would be laid to rest beside her beloved, their graves nestled beneath a towering oak that stood as a sentinel of time and memory. The rustle of its leaves whispered stories of their shared laughter, whispered dreams, and tender moments frozen in the folds of time. Those who gathered honored not just her service but the depth of her spirit, the courage etched into the lines of her face, and the fierce love that had been her compass.

In a heartfelt gesture of remembrance, Nugget, ever her faithful companion through shadows and light, would be interred beside them. A silent testament to loyalty and the unspoken bond between hearts, human and otherwise.

"Well, I guess she got the last laugh," Jackson remarked with a crooked smile, his voice a fragile thread between sorrow and fond remembrance. He wiped away a stray tear, the glint of loss tempered by the enduring glow of cherished memories.

In the years that followed, the members of the French kiss crew would one by one take their leave from this world. Arnie passed in the fall of 1998, leaving behind a legacy of three children, nine grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren. Jackson followed suit in the spring of 2003, his departure leaving a void that could never be filled.

Robert, the mellow fellow with a heart of gold, would join his comrades in the realm beyond in 2008, leaving behind memories as sweet as the scent of summer roses. And sweet Ben, the last of the gallant crew, would bid his final adieu in 2010, closing the chapter on a tale of friendship, love, and loss that had spanned the decades.

YEARS LATER
1990

|| IN THE YEARS FOLLOWING, ONES THAT TRICKLED BY following the departure of her mother and father, Annie found solace in the relics left behind—tucked away in a weathered binder. Memories enshrined within aged pages, a testament to lives intertwined in the tumultuous era painted by the canvas of World War II.

With a fervent desire to honor their legacy, Annie took it upon herself to preserve their memory. She organized grand press conferences, aired history broadcasts, and tirelessly advocated for the acknowledgment of the unsung heroes of World War II.

It was on a somber eve, cloaked in the shadow of her second televised showcase, that a call whispered its way into Annie's world. A voice, unfamiliar yet tinged with a reverent solemnity—bore tidings of a connection veiled in the mists of wartime anguish.

"You bear her likeness," the woman revealed, her voice filled with reverence. "Those eyes, a mirror image of hers."
An echo of recognition resonated in the caller's words, shrouded in a cloak of shared pasts and unspoken bonds.

Intrigued yet puzzled, Annie probed further, delving into the woman's shared past with her mother. The revelation that they had both endured the horrors of Ravensbrück, their lives intertwined in the crucible of wartime hardship, left Annie breathless.

"My name is Ana," the woman finally disclosed, her voice laden with memories of a bygone era. Come to be know as Ana Haussmann, the little girl from Ravensbrück all grown up. She had been granted a second chance at life by the benevolence of a German lieutenant Haussmann. Whom after hearing Celeste's plea's save the girl, gave in. Bound by duty and gratitude, Ana had assumed the role of Lieutenant Haussmann's sister, finding refuge in his protection until the war's end.

As the echoes of wartime whispers resounded through the line, Annie finally unveiled the long-guarded secret of her father's relentless search for Ana. To one day unite Celeste and her again.

"To me, Ana was not merely a friend but a sister, a replacement for the one my mother had lost. She had been sent to save my mother. Even now, as years have woven a tapestry of life's trials and joys, Ana and I have stood steadfastly by each other's side. " Annie would tell everyone.

With delicate grace, Ana would make her way to Celeste's resting place day after day, bearing offerings of fragrant blooms and whispered conversations that lingered like echoes in the wind.

Annie, Katherine, and Ana formed a bond as inseparable as the threads of fate, woven together in a tapestry of sisterhood that knew no bounds. Through the trials of life's tumultuous winds, their friendship stood resolute, a beacon of light in the darkest of days. With Ana moving from Germany to the USA to be closer. Every day of every waking hour, she would travel the states along side Annie and Katherine. Though she was saddened to have not said goodbye to Celeste.

And they would all remain together until Ana's untimely passing in 2020. The silent whispers of a relentless pandemic claimed her gentle soul. As Annie had put it, she was finally reunited with Celeste and her real parents that had perished during the war.....

And so there the story is told, that there a man named John Egan and that he saved Celeste Jefferson in every way a person can be saved. She had become his sunset and sunrise, his reason to fly.... And in the end, Egan would become her sunset and sunrise, with her yearning towards the yellows and reds of the painted sky... waiting to perhaps see him one more time...

YOU HAVE REACHED

OF

—AMOR VINCIT OMNIA—

AUTHOR'S NOTE
——-

——-  I wanted to say i appreciate every single comment, vote reactions I've gotta on this book. It has always made my day❤️ As this book has come to an end, I will surely miss writing for it. With that being side, I will be going back in and rereading / editing some sections—I felt some chapters were done in haste and I don't want that. So yes, if you do re read, there's bound to be perhaps something new added in or more elaborated on.

—— Also, I WAS THE FIRST AUTHOR ON WATTPAD TO HAVE A JOHN EGAN FIC!! I FEEL SO SPECIAL

——- Because this book is some, I will be working on my other, HEAVY IS THE CROWN & OH, THESE VIOLENT DELIGHTS more now.

——-  I hope everyone throughly loved reading Amor Vincit Omnia and that my writing was good, I have such self issues when it comes to writing. I always judge myself so hard.

Anyways, peace out everyone. Thank you all so much for continuing with me on this journey. ❤️

STARTED: NOVEMBER 17, 2023

ENDED: JULY 30, 2024

EDIT FINISHED: JUNE 17th, 2025