Before Our Dawn| ongoing

fifty-one

Chapitre cinquante-et-un
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The chill of winter seeped into her bones.

Isra sat motionless, her gaze fixed on the nothingness before her, the crumpled paper in her hand.

Celine moved quietly across the room. She reached Isra and, with a tenderness born of shared sorrow, draped a blanket over her shoulders. The fabric settled around Isra, a feeble barrier against the cold that had nothing to do with the weather.

Isra's fingers tightened around Hans' last letter, the words within etched into her memory, a litany of love and finality. She had read it countless times, each word a shard of glass piercing her heart anew. The soldiers had been faceless messengers of doom, their silence more eloquent than any words of condolence.

Since that day, she had been a shell, her once vibrant spirit dulled by the relentless tide of loss. Celine's presence, a constant in her haze of grief, was a silent anchor in the storm. Yet, even Celine's loss seemed distant to Isra, her own pain a vast ocean that drowned all else.

Her face, once animated by the light of life, was now a blank canvas. The emotions that had once played across her features were gone, locked away behind the impenetrable wall of shock. She was adrift in a galaxy of numbness, the world around her a distant mirage.

"Isra." But Isra did not respond, could not respond. Her world had narrowed to the pain of Hans' absence, the future they would never have.

The wail of a child pierced the heavy silence of the house. Celine's footsteps were soft as she ascended the stairs. Isra, lost in the void of her sorrow, barely registered the sound. It was Celine who had become the guardian of routine, the keeper of the children's needs. She returned with Heidi in her arms, the baby's cries subsiding in the comfort of her embrace.

"Isra, it's time to feed her," Celine coaxed. She handed Heidi to Isra, who took her daughter mechanically, the act of nursing stripped of its usual intimacy.

As Heidi latched on, Isra's eyes were distant, her touch devoid of the warmth that once came so naturally. Celine watched, her heart aching for her friend and the children who were too young to understand the depths of their mother's despair.

Klaus's small form appeared in the doorway, his once bright eyes now shadowed with confusion. He moved hesitantly, his innate sense of the discomfort around him rendering him uncharacteristically quiet.

"Mama?" Klaus's voice was tentative, a whisper in the stillness. "Where Papa?"

Isra's breath hitched, a sob threatening to break free. She averted her gaze, the pain too raw, too immense to face her son's innocent inquiry.

Celine knelt beside Klaus, drawing him close. "Papa is... he's a hero, Klaus. He's in a place where heroes go," she murmured, her words a delicate veil over the harsh truth.

"Want to play with Papa..." he muttered, rubbing his eye.

"Klaus, why don't you go to the kitchen and draw, hm? Make something nice for your mother."

Klaus nodded, the simplicity of a child's acceptance masking the confusion and hurt that lay beneath. He leaned into Celine, seeking the comfort that his mother could not give. "Go on now."

He toddled out of the room.

Isra's tears fell silently, her heart breaking anew for the promises that could no longer be kept, for the father her children would yearn for, and for the love that would remain unspoken in the wake of war's cruel passage.