Before Our Dawn| ongoing

forty-nine

Chapitre quarante-neuf
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The dawn of January 10th broke with a hushed, gray sky, the sun a mere suggestion behind the thick winter clouds. The village outside was silent, save for the occasional creak of snow-laden branches. Inside the small house, the air was tense, heavy with the weight of the day's mission.

Isra watched Hans, her heart caught between the hammering beats of fear and the quiet hope that whispered of safe passages and silent prayers. She busied herself with mundane tasks, the clatter of dishes, the sweep of the broom—anything to drown out the ticking clock that counted down the hours until Hans's departure.

Hans, for his part, was a study in restrained urgency. His movements were measured, his smiles fleeting. He packed supplies with meticulous care, each item crucial for the journey ahead. Analise, the girl with eyes too old for her years, watched him with a quiet understanding that spoke of shared burdens.

At lunch, they sat together, a family stitched together by circumstance and compassion. Their conversation was light, skirting around the edges of the unspoken fears. Isra's laughter was too high, too quick, and Hans's reassurances too steady, too certain.

As dusk settled, painting the sky in shades of bruising purple, Isra's unease grew. She remembered Marcel and the hollow echo of promises unkept. The memory of his last goodbye was a ghost that lingered at the table, an uninvited guest that chilled her bones.

The time had come.

Hans sensed her fear, squeezing her tightly as they embraced for what she was petrified would be the last time. "I'll come back," he said. "This is different, Isra. I'm not Marcel, and this is not the same goodbye."

She wanted to believe him, to trust in the strength of his conviction. But as night fell and the time came for Hans to leave, her heart was a wild thing within her chest, thrashing against the cage of her ribs. Her eyes were brimming with tears, her hands trembling as they clutched at Hans's coat. Analise, a silent figure beside them, held a small, worn bag—her life reduced to a few precious items.

Yves waited a respectful distance away, his gaze turned to the snow-covered ground, granting them this last moment of privacy. 

Isra looked up at him, her eyes searching his. "I know," she whispered. "But I can't help but fear... after Marcel—"

He cupped her face in his hands, wiping away a tear with his thumb. "This is not the same war. I have you, Klaus, and Heidi to come back to. I will be careful, I promise."

Analise reached out, placing a tentative hand on Isra's arm. "Thank you," she said. 

Isra crouched and pulled her into a hug, holding her tight. "Be safe, be strong," she murmured. "Find your freedom."

Klaus's small feet pattered against the wooden floor as he toddled out of the living room, his young eyes filled with the innocent curiosity of a child. He noticed the unusual bustle, the heavy coat Hans wore, and the sombre look on Isra's face. With a child's intuition, he sensed a change in the air, a departure from the routine.

"Up, Papa," Klaus said, his little arms reaching up, his face breaking into a trusting grin. He didn't understand what was happening, the perilous journey that lay ahead for his father. To Klaus, it was just another adventure, perhaps a game that would end with his father's return.

Hans's heart swelled as he bent down, lifting his son into his arms. The warmth of his small body, the sweet scent of his hair, were a balm to the fear and uncertainty that churned inside him. He held Klaus close, savouring the innocence and love that radiated from the child.

Klaus giggled, oblivious to the tears that welled in Isra's eyes or the tightness of his father's embrace. He simply hugged his father back, his small world complete in the circle of his father's arms.

As Hans set Klaus down, he ruffled his son's hair, offering a brave smile that he hoped would linger in Klaus's memory. "Be strong and brave. Take care of your mother while I'm gone, okay? Be a good boy. Listen to her, love her, and protect her. Protect your sister too. Alright, my boy?"

Klaus nodded vigorously and hugged Hans' legs, smiling sheepishly. Hans ruffled his hair one more time and patted his chubby cheek.

"I love you, my little man," he whispered. It was a promise, a silent pledge that he would return, that he would move mountains to ensure the safety and future of this precious life in his arms.

One last time, the family embraced, a long, desperate moment where words were lost. 

"Be safe. Return to me, Hans. I beg you," Isra pleaded, reluctant to let him go. But Yves reminded them that it was time to embark, lest dawn break before they arrived at the border. 

"I love you, Hans. I love you."

He kissed her—long and passionate and lingering. "I love you too, Isra, my darling."

And then Hans was gone, swallowed by the night, with Yves at his side and Analise, a silent shadow, slipping away toward freedom.

Isra stood at the window long after they disappeared, holding her son, the cold glass a barrier between her and the world. She whispered a prayer into the darkness, a plea to whoever might listen, to bring Hans back to her.