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| xiv. AS IF SHE WAS STILL HERE 
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MASTERS OF THE AIR
AMOR VINCIT OMNIA

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I think of you all of the time,
Now that you're gone

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THORPE ABBOTTS
DAY AFTER DROP

        || IN A BALLROOM OF BLACK, TWO FIGURES DANCE; it's a long melody that has yet to end...To dance with Death means one isn't afraid. That had been a phrase Egan often referred too—something picked up from his early days in bootcamp.

It was only now that he truly felt what it meant. Hadn't exactly counted on losing two of whom meant the most. Egan never left the airfield since receiving the devastating news the afternoon before. Even when Lemmons and his crew were off to their quarters—he remained.

The painful words "Jefferson didn't make it" persisted in an endless loop like a broken record. One that warranted it would never end. Egan had hidden himself for view, having picked a random B-17 to corral his thoughts. That once proud, overly optimistic demeanor crumpled—only seeking refuge in the numbing depths of a bottle.

His shoulders slouch to one side, legs spread carelessly, hair and tie left a skew. Oh, how Jefferson would have had a fit seeing his posture like this. Egan imagined her fawning that snarky expression—moments before a lecture would come raveling out.

His gaze clung to the distant horizon as if holding to a glimmer of hope— a delusion that she might materialize before him.

Each sip of the bitter liquid was a futile attempt to drown the ache of his chest, to dull the searing pain.

Memories of Jefferson, her laughter like music, her graceful form twirling in his arms—invaded every waking second with merciless clarity. The weight pressed down on him like a leaden shroud— where a dagger plunging deep into his wounded soul.

With trembling hands, Egan reached into his pocket, fingers fumbling until they brushed against a rectangular object. Lifting it clumsily, he squinted through bleary eyes at the photograph it held—her image staring back at him, a bittersweet reminder of what could have been.

With another swig from the bottle, Egan's movements grew more unsteady—why did all these memories suddenly make themselves prominent? Frankly, he wasn't one for melodrama.

Tears threatened to overflow from those blue eyes of his, though he prided himself on never shedding them. Tracing a shaky thumb over her smile—Egan tried to summon the ghost of her presence. To remember the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips—-the warmth of her embrace that now existed only in fleeting fragments of memory.

The B-17 creaked in response to the howling wind, a subtle murmur that seemed to underline the major's newfound solitude, driving home the crushing realization that he was truly, irrevocably alone. In the matter of two days, he had lost two people he loved the most; a dear friend and a woman that steal his heart. Oh how cruel death can be...

Sitting there, his sight lingers towards the worn journal in the co pilot seat—where atop, the stark white letter contrasted against dark leather. There was no telling what Jefferson had left, it could have been anything. Egan refused at first, knowing that opening it meant she truly wasn't coming back. But whatever it may be, it was eating at him to know.

With a heavy sigh, Egan slowly took the letter into his hands, savoring the weight of the moment before sliding his index finger under the flap. With a hinge breath, he extracted a trifold piece of paper—swallowing harshly in anticipation. Slowly and gently, it unfolded, revealing her cursive writing that danced across the yellowed paper..

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     Dearest Egan... or better known as the pain in my arse...

      I'm writing this letter because I could never get myself to say it out loud. Firstly, I'm sorry for leaving and not saying goodbye, least this letter be that closure. But If you are reading this, it probably means I am gone. Which is enough for me to finally spill the beans as it won't affect me in the afterlife....

Getting to know you over these last few months has changed my life. Even though I never admitted to it, I'm happier than I have ever been, and I owe that joy to you.

Before I met you, there was emptiness in my heart that at times seemed to consume me, that threatened to break me – but now my life is full of meaning and purpose. You are the light in the dark that guides my steps to where I want to be. When the entire world was once overcast by subtle shades of gray, when I seemed caught in a perpetual winter, you brought vibrant color to my life, and in my heart, I felt the renewal, the warmth, and sunlight of spring again.

I adore your kind smile and your gentle eyes. You have so much good in you – even if you are cocky and over confident, I love your quiet strength and your desire to do right. You have such a love for others,.You can always make me laugh, even when I don't always want to. When I look into your eyes –– I see a reflection of my own soul. And in your arms, I know there is no place on earth that I would rather be.

I wish you the best... to find someone who loves you just as much as I did... someone to put a smile on your heart. For the first time, I can utter these three words on paper—

    I love you, Major John Egan

Chief Leader— C. Jefferson."

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The cockpit fell thick with silence that hung like ghosts around him. His teary eyes stayed put on the last words penned in her graceful hand— ink blurring in the tear-stained pages.

Egan slowly hunched over, taking his poorly fitted tie out before using it to dab his eyes. "Damn it little lady." He choked out, anger fuming through his veins. That was before truly took over, making him punched at the wheel with all his heart. Had this been the feeling Cleven often faced? When reading letters from Marge?

Upon closing the letter, his sight then found the journal— before hesitantly taking it into his hands. Inside, Egan found a secret compartment that held a small, weathered pencil. With a trembling finger, he flipped through the pages—each filled with her drawings of coins and architecture. Hours spent pouring her heart and soul into something she'd never get the chance to complete.

Egan was not much of a writer, nor one for words, but with that pencil on hand—he needed to convey his feelings in writing. As the woman who had captured his heart so effortlessly deserved nothing less.

Egan begins to write all the traits he remembers about her; the way her hair shined a reddish brown in the sun, the bridge of her nose that tilted to the side ever so slightly. He memorized her face as if it was his mirror, or a prayer that needs to be said every night. Egan would rather forget his name before forgetting her.

He writes about how he wanted a future with her. How he wanted two daughters and a white-picket fence home in the country. About how the only woman he ever wanted to touch was her. How he memorized the weight of her hand in his so he would never forget it when he touched the steering wheel of the B-17.

How most men wore crosses around their neck but he kept her picture in the pocket over his heart, and when he kissed it for good luck, he imagined the warm paper was her lips.

Egan drew a deep breath as he finished penning the letter to Jefferson—crafting that would be his gift to her in the afterlife. With a gentle kiss pressed against the final period, Egan closed the journal and vowed to keep the memory of her in his heart forever. The soft rustle of paper mingled with the distant sound of a jeep coming closer—a reminder of the world beyond his thoughts.

As the engine of the jeep cut off, he could hear the steady crunch of footsteps drawing nearer. "Who's in there?" Corporal Lemmons' voice cut through Egan's reverie, pulling him back to the present. The major closed the journal with a sense of finality, turning slightly to side so the corporal would hear him'. "It's just me, Lemmons," Egan says— tone tinged with a hint of weariness as he tucked the journal into his coat pocket.

Egan's weary footsteps reverberated softly against the concrete as he emerged from the confines of the plane—like a lone wolf navigating the terrain with purpose. The brim of his cap shadowed his eyes, shielding the storm raging within his soul, while Lemmons' piercing gaze dissected him with silent precision, a silent symphony of unspoken questions hanging in the tense air between them.

"Sir, are you certain you're in a state to proceed with this? Your eyes are kinds betraying more than you wish," Lemmons inquired, his tone a blend of authority and concern as he arched a skeptical brow.

Egan emitted a subdued belch, a concoction of nerves and weariness bubbling to the surface, betraying the facade of composure he sought to maintain. "I assure you, Corporal, I am more than capable," he stated firmly. With a quick ignition, he steered the vehicle into motion—leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

The journey unfurled like a forgotten tapestry of memories and regrets, the scenery blurring by in a symphony of motion and melancholy. His outstretched hand gravitated towards the empty seat beside him, a phantom limb seeking solace in the absence of its counterpart.

Fingers grazed the vacant fabric, a bittersweet caress igniting a whirlwind of longing and regret within his chest. For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, envisioning Celeste's ethereal presence, her laughter harmonizing with the wind that whispered through the open windows.

"I vowed to stay by your side, yet you vanished without a trace, leaving me stranded," Egan murmured, his confession a soft lament to the desolate expanse of solitude that enveloped him. With a heavy heart, he retracted his hand, clenching the wheel with a steadfast grip as he navigated the labyrinthine roads.

Upon arriving at Celeste's quarters, Egan cut the engine, enveloping himself in a cocoon of reverent silence that mirrored the ache within his soul. Stepping out with deliberate intention, his fists clenched so tightly that slivers of moonlight seemed to seep through his skin.

The cadence of Egan's footsteps echoed softly as he approached the door, a sanctuary he had yearned to penetrate yet now hesitated to breach. As the it groaned open, yielding to the weight of his apprehension—a somber tableau unfolded before him.

Rene, bathed in the glow of muted sunlight, her silhouette a haunting reminder of the fractured reality of war. The air was heavy with the scent of fading perfume and the echoes of laughter that once filled the space.

The blonde with her back stooped and hands trembling, sat at the worn wooden desk where Celeste spent hours chasing dreams and confronting demons. Her eyes, red and swollen, bore witness to the silent tears that cascaded down her weathered face—carving rivulets on the canvas of her perseverance.

A creak cut through the silence as the door swung open, ushering in a sliver of light that danced hesitantly across the room. Rene's gaze, a mix of anguish and recognition, met the figure that stood in the doorway. With graceful poignancy, she reached for a tissue, a delicate gesture amidst the tempest of emotions that threatened to engulf her. Each dab at her tears was a silent plea, a fragile attempt at composure in the face of overwhelming sorrow.

"I'm sorry..." Egan's voice barely carried above a whisper, a melody of regret. His instinct was to retreat, to offer solace from a distance, from a realm where words could not do justice to the depth of their shared grief. Yet, Rene's shattered yet resolute voice pierced the fragile cocoon of silence that enveloped them both. "It's okay."

As Egan slowly turned back toward her, his eyes mirrored the melancholy that dwelled within her, a reflection of pain too profound for words. "I came here to feel her presence one more time," Rene confessed, her voice a symphony of memories too heavy to bear alone. "Before they come to collect her belongings and replace her with another contender."

The bitterness in her words painted the harsh reality that lingered in the air—-a bitter reminder of the transient nature of the world they occupied. Oh war, where one passed and another is on to conquer just an inch more than their predecessors.

The room felt heavy with memories of laughter and shared secrets. Rene had witnessed the horrors of daily bombings, the anguish of friends who never returned home. Her gaze met Egan's, silently conveying a shared sense of loss and the weight of unspoken words between them.

As the major moved closer, a sense of understanding passed between them—a silent acknowledgment of the pain they both carried. With a heavy sigh, Rene pushed her chair back, the harsh scraping sound breaking the solemn silence of the room. She reached under the desk, her fingers closing around the handle of a large green chest. As she pulled it out, Nugget jumped upon the desk with fright—having been sleeping in the corner.

The yellow markings on its front stood out in stark contrast, the words "CHIEF LEADER CELESTE S. JEFFERSON" emblazoned boldly across its surface. Egan knelt beside the chest, his fingers tracing the embossed letters as if trying to etch them into his memory. "Celeste... Celeste..." The name lingered on his lips—a whisper of reverence for a woman lost.

A chill ran down his spine.. It was beautiful... just like her...—after all this time, it was finally there... but now he didn't have the woman to say it too.

Rene's gentle chuckle broke the silence, her voice soft yet carrying a weight. "She never told you her name, did she?" She chuckled lightly, "That sounds like something she'd do," There was a fondness evident in her tone, even as the corners of her lips wanted to falter. "Celeste was always miss right. She followed the rules all the time, even as children...that's why she was named Miss prim and proper."

A sad smile graced Egan's lips as he reached for the military-issued chest, his fingers tracing the cold metal lock. With a flick, the lid lifted, a flood of memories spilled out in the form of cherished mementos. Among them, a faded photograph caught Egan's attention.

It captured a moment of joy, frozen in time - Celeste and Arnie proudly holding the flag, surrounded by smiling faces. The major's heart ached as he held the photo delicately—his thumb caressing Celeste's image with a mixture of love and longing.

Rene's soft sniffling provided a melancholic soundtrack along with the faint sound of Egan's breath hitching. Through tear-filled eyes, she whispered, "I wish I could have made her stay. Maybe if I had tried just a tad harder, she'd still be here." Egan, lost in his own thoughts, rubbed his thumb gently over Celeste's figure in the photo. "I feel she still would have went," he uttered quietly—before placing the picture back carefully. "we know that's how she is.." He pauses for a moment, swallowing the bile catching within his throat, "Was...'

A lone tear escaped Rene's eye, noting the time on the clock upon the wall—an "oh shit" moment flickered across her face, before she swiftly wiped it away. Rising to her feet, quickly collecting her belongings. "Well, I must excuse myself... I've got work to do," her voice trailed off softly as she walked past—and as she turned, Rene noticed the white scarf with the tiger hanging loosely around Egan's neck.

"Celeste must have cared greatly for you if she gave you her scarf. she's very particular." Rene uttered with a fate smile, before closing the door with a solemn finality behind her. His hand reached for the scarf, running over the embroidered silk.

Ah Silence, perhaps the only friend Egan knew at this point. His trembling hands reached for Celeste's folded uniform, the fabric was soft beneath his touch—each crease a memory etched into the very essence of the garment. His fingers brushed over the silver WAAC wings, a symbol of dedication and sacrifice that Celeste had worn with pride.

A faint smile graced his lips, remarking the first time she walked into that bar, into his life—those wings glistening under the faint glow. Closing his eyes, he ran his hands over the fabric again, as if seeking solace in the ghostly presence.

Gently, Egan lifted the uniform, holding it close to his chest as he closed his eyes. The faint scent of her perfume lingered—a ghostly reminder of her essence. Nugget watched from the bed with solemn green eyes, as if sharing in their grief.

It had been hours since being in the room, where he sat slouched, leaning against the edge of Celeste's neatly made bed. He clutched her uniform closely, the fabric soft against his calloused hands. Nugget had nestled in his lap, her whiskers twitching with curiosity as she gazed up at him—offering silent comfort.

Did Nugget, with her playful swats at the silver wing emblem on the uniform, understand the gravity of the situation? That Celeste wasn't coming back. He had dozed off not long after Rene left the quarters. Apparently all that alcohol finally caught up to him. Yet there in his dream, Egan felt reunited with Celeste in an odd sense. He was able to run his hands through her hair again, that radiant smile shining back at him.

A soft knock broke the peaceful silence, before Crosby entered the room. His hands were tucked casually in his pockets, his dark hair slicked back in a polished manner. "Major," he murmured, his gaze shifting nervously between Egan and the floor.

Egan exhaled a groggy sigh before responding, "Yes?" Crosby cleared his throat, his posture straightening as he delivered the message. "Harding informed me about the game today... I thought you'd want to be part of the lineup."

Red-rimmed eyes locked with Crosby's in silent acknowledgment. Egan carefully transferred the uniform from his grip back to the chest—closing it with a resolute thud. Nugget, held in the nook of his elbow, Sensing the familiar scent of her owner, emitted a soft meow—her tail swishing slowly.

With a gentle gesture, Egan handed Nugget to Crosby, who accepted her with trembling arms, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "Sir, I've never had cats before... what am I supposed to do?" Crosby's words stumbled out, his unease palpable.

Lifting the chest, he reassured, "It's not difficult," before striding past Crosby towards the door. " Sir... uh..i." Crosby's panicked voice followed him, pleading to not take Celeste's belongings—invoking her father's authority.

In typical Egan fashion, he ignored the protests—only carrying the chest faster carried to his jeep. There Egan carefully placed it on the passenger seat. Nugget wriggled in Crosby's grasp, yearning to return to the major's side. Sternly, Egan issued a command, "Make sure this chest stays on my side."

"Uh yeah..." Crosby muttered with a sharp sigh, his hand resting upon Nugget's head as the kitten purred away. The unspoken weight of emotions lingered in the air as Egan drove away, leaving the once navigator standing in the doorway—watching the fading taillights.

It wasn't long before Egan reached the officer's mess hall. Hoping out of the jeep, he finally showed himself—with a dozen of airmen sharing bewildered glances. Half knowing he wasn't due to come back from London yet. The news of Cleven and Celeste's plane going down spread like wildfire, and it wasn't exactly a secret that the Major cared for the colonel's daughter.

Nor was it that Egan and Cleven were great friends, Egan had basically named Cleven after him—buck and Bucky. Slowly, he sauntered over to the counter, before slapping his cap upon the hardened surface. His subordinates remained silent, unwilling to provoke a possible outburst from their commanding officer.. "You can all take a guess as to why I'm back now," Egan grumbled out, to which another man answered, "A new mission."

"Oh yes...." Egan muttered before happily taking a glass of water from the bartender. Most exhaled a deepening sigh, where a sorrow was filling itself within whilst others muttered in hushed, grumbled tones. Seeing him back was not a good thing, it meant they needed all hands on deck.

It didn't take long for them to converge in the connected hut. Colonel Harding felt it necessary to retaliate for the damage caused to the hundred over Bremen and the 449th over endshede. He wanted the Germans to know their actions weren't without retaliation.

Egan had positioned himself at the very spot Celeste had occupied in earlier briefings. His gaze fixated on the monochrome screen before him—jaw clenched in a silent vow for retribution.

While some members of the team expressed reservations about the proposed plan to bomb a cathedral on a Sunday, citing ethical concerns, Crank stood out in his refusal to endorse such an operation. emphasizing how cruel it was to do this. But Egan tossed his head back, "Crank, this is war."

His words hung in the air as a challenge, but Crank, undeterred, locked eyes with the Major and countered, "But those civilians are not the ones who fired the flak. They did not kill Jefferson and Cleven."

A tense silence enveloped the room, thick with conflicting emotions and ethical dilemmas. Egan's gaze bore into Crank—it didn't matter who did it, both were gone. And to him, it was either kill or be killed.

"We have a job to do," he declared, a sentiment echoed more by the weight of loss and the thirst for justice than by the mere words themselves. " Are you flying today or what crank?" Egan snaps, with the man submitting to his request, " yes..."

Egan narrowed his sight, his resolve unwavering as he murmured, "Yes, sir..." The words lingered in the air, a stark contrast to the fiery spirit Celeste possessed, He could almost hear her voice, sharp and unyielding—-challenging him to stand firm in the face of adversity.

It was her absence that shadowed him, a constant reminder of a love lost and a future left uncertain. He knew that he would carry the ghost of her absence with him—a constant reminder of a love lost and a heart left adrift.

As the metallic behemoth of a truck rumbled to life, The subtle breeze carried the faint scent of aviation fuel. Egan had found himself seated at the end, having taken jack's bomber jacket of course. He was beyond eager to get this mission accomplished.

Passing by Celeste's quarters only fueled this. He was adamant on making sure Celeste's items stayed under his bed along with Cleven's—unwilling to have them shipped back home nor have her father collect them. He was hiding them for better words.

As the preparations for the mission continued, Egan was a man on a mission, fueled by a desire. The metal birds stood tall and proud, ready to take flight, a symbol of hope and determination in the face of uncertainty. Egan climbed into his plane, the familiar cockpit embracing him like an old friend.

His hands moved with practiced precision over the panel, a testament to the countless hours spent honing his craft. As the ground fell away beneath him, a sense of purpose settled in his chest like a heavy stone.

Once Brady had settled in, Egan retrieved her photograph from his pocket—holding it arms length away. He placed it close to his lips—pressing a gentle kiss against the faded image before tucking it back into its rightful place. "This is for you," he whispered—voice barely audible above the roar of the engines. It was a promise, an oath sworn in the quiet solitude of his cockpit, a vow to honor her memory with each passing moment.

And as the planes soared into the vast expanse of the sky, a lone figure stood on the airfield below, his gaze fixed on the disappearing specks of metal against the canvas of blue. The figure, dressed in a weathered uniform, watched with a mix of pride and trepidation as Egan's plane vanished into the horizon. He clenched his fists, feeling a surge of emotions wash over him.

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NETHERLANDS—GERMANY BORDER

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|| BATHING IN THE MEADOW IN A LUXURIOUS GOLDEN LIGHT; the sun painted a breathtaking spectacle upon the canvas of nature. The gentle caress of the wind waltzed through the tall grass, orchestrating a harmonious symphony with the melodious chirping of the birds above. Each note seemed to be a verse of a song never sung before, weaving an enchanting tapestry of undiscovered allure.

In the midst of this serene setting, the distant sounds of dogs mingled with the buzzing of flies and industrious bees. The grass, swaying gracefully like dancers in perfect synchrony, whispered a silent invitation to tired souls seeking solace.

As the soft ground cradled weary footsteps with a comforting embrace, a lone figure lay prone on the verdant carpet, oblivious to the world surrounding them. The pilot's head lay tilted to one side, delicate trails of dried blood painting a stark contrast against porcelain skin. Strands of chestnut hair cascaded over the stranger's face, intertwining with the velvety blades of grass.

Above this surreal tableau, a cream parachute fluttered in the breeze, its strings still tethered to the motionless form below. Freed from its entanglement with tree branches by the insistent tugging of cattle, the delicate fabric now danced freely with the wind, a silent witness to the strange encounter unfolding below.

Inquisitive eyes of the bovine spectators peered down at the visitor, their curiosity piqued by this unexpected arrival. With timid exploration, tiny hairs on the edge of a cow's mouth ventured to brush against the tousled locks and exposed skin, seeking to unravel the mystery of this unfamiliar being. Emboldened by the leader's curiosity, one courageous bovine dared to nip at the leather jacket, its rough tongue tentatively exploring this foreign object with a blend of awe and fascination.

With a mischievous gleam in its eye, another cow used its teeth to grab onto the jacket—-playfully initiating a tug of war with the unsuspecting pilot's arm. The gentle tugging stirred Celeste from her slumber—her green eyes slowly fluttering open to an unexpected sight.

Before her, a dozen or so pink and brown noses were nearly pressed against her face—-nostrils flaring loudly as innocent eyes met hers. For a fleeting moment, Celeste thought she had slipped into a dream, transported back to her childhood days on her grandfather's farm, tending to the cattle under the watchful gaze of the setting sun.

One of the cows, more daring than the rest, leaned in to investigate, its moist nose nudging her cheek with playful curiosity. Celeste dug her finger nails into the grass, feeling the earth beneath her. She hadn't remembered much from the mission.

All she could put together was the wind that rushed past her ears—with the new kid emerging from the shadows with an outstretched hand—a silent beckoning. Both jumped from the failing air craft. A symphony of whispers as French Kiss soared—an unbridled dance in the sky.

Celeste found herself torn from the grasp of gravity's hold, a puppet in the hands of fate, as French Kiss tumbled toward the earth beneath her—swallowed by the darkness.

As Celeste descended, the earth rose up to meet her, a carpet of leaves and branches eagerly awaiting her embrace. The impact was softened by the benevolent arms of nature, though she was left suspended in the aftermath—a marionette caught in a tangled web of parachute lines.

Minutes stretched into hours, the stillness broken only by the muted symphony of the morning—the rustling of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl. Celeste's consciousness ebbed and flowed—the pain in her body a distant echo in the recesses of her mind. Then it went all black and the next she knew, she was laying flat on the hard ground.

With a Herculean effort, Gritting her teeth, Celeste arched her back—the sinews of her muscles protesting as she slowly pushed herself upright. The cattle, silent sentinels, regarded her with curious eyes—a silent audience to her struggle.

Rising to her knees, Celeste cast her gaze over the undulating landscape before her—a panorama of rolling hills bathed in the silver glow of the sunlight. The cattle, mottled shadows against the verdant backdrop, provided no clue as to her whereabouts, their inscrutable gazes offering no solace.

With a sense of urgency, Celeste set to work, her fingers deftly tracing the lines of her parachute, a ritualistic motion honed by years of practice. The fabric surrendered to her touch, folding neatly into its cocoon—like a dormant dragon waiting to be unleashed once more.

One of the bolder cows, emboldened by curiosity, reached out with inquisitive lips, tugging at the scarf wound around Celeste's neck. "No, stop it," she scolded, her voice a gentle reprimand in the tranquil atmosphere. With a final flourish, she secured the parachute in its bag.

As the realization slowly seeped through Celeste's consciousness, she couldn't help but notice the lack of vigilance from the farmers who owned this isolated plot of land. If they made regular rounds to check on their cattle, she would have been discovered by now. The eerie silence of the forest intensified her solitude. It was clear that she had to make a move and find sustenance sooner rather than later.

Her emerald eyes surveyed the dense woods that surrounded her, calculating her next steps carefully. Celeste knew that her best chance at survival lay in traversing through the woods, where the protective canopy would shield her from prying eyes. She needed water, food, and perhaps some semblance of safety.

With a resolute nod, Celeste set off in what she assumed to be a southwesterly direction. The undergrowth tugged at her clothes, resisting her progress, while the hush of the forest hinted at the presence of a larger, unseen predator lurking in the shadows.

After what seemed like an eternity of silent trekking, a clearing appeared on the horizon, offering a glimmer of hope in the form of shelter and sustenance. Her stomach growled in agreement, reminding her of the urgency of her situation. While her instincts urged her to seek refuge within the familiar embrace of the forest, Celeste hesitated. She couldn't shake off the thought that if she had truly reached Munster, Germany, the locals would consider the forest a predictable hiding spot.

As she cautiously stepped closer to the clearing, a dirt road came into view, slicing through the serene landscape. Peering out from the concealing shadows of the forest, Celeste assessed the scene before her with a trained eye. A quaint house stood at the edge of the clearing, flanked by a spacious barn and a meticulously tended vegetable patch. Adjacent to the house, a smaller barn stood in silent companionship.

Her hunger gnawed at her insides, a relentless reminder of her vulnerability. Just as she debated her next move, the sound of approaching voices shattered the tranquility. Heart pounding in her chest, Celeste swiftly retreated behind the sturdy trunk of a tree, her gaze fixed on the unfolding drama.

An elderly couple emerged on the scene, their weathered faces illuminated by the golden rays of the setting sun. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against the rugged terrain announced their arrival, accompanied by the creaking protest of an old wooden wagon. The couple's laughter echoed through the clearing, a stark contrast to the solitude that had engulfed Celeste moments before.

Hearing the language uttered from their lips, Celeste knew it anywhere as she was forced to learn it at a young age—she was truly in Germany...

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AUTHORS NOTE
——

DARLING GUESS WHO'S BACK
FROM JAIL

do you guys miss me
🥺
👉👈

The fact you guys thought the last
chapter was the ending makes me wonder 😭

Honestly Celeste needs a break, like I'm just beating her up

NEXT ON AMOR VINCIT OMNIA
—-

Egan has been shot down and
tried to traverse the Germany countryside. While scavenging for food, he founds someone
he never thought he'd see again. Some spicy action perhaps 🫣