The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 16~

FRANCE, 1917.

Another year had passed, and it was now 1917. The world seemed colder, harder, and the war continued its relentless march, stretching beyond what anyone could have imagined. Florence had lost track of time, the days blurring together in a monotonous routine of tending to the endless waves of wounded men. The only markers of time were the changing seasons and the ever-growing list of names that had been lost to the war.

She had grown numb to much of it—numb to the blood, the screams, the horror. She had learned to close off a part of herself, the part that used to feel deeply, the part that used to care. It was the only way to survive, to keep from drowning in the overwhelming despair that surrounded her. But with that numbness came a deep weariness, a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep could ever cure.

The war had dragged on for three long years, and though Florence had once been driven by a fierce sense of duty, a desire to help, now she felt as though she were simply going through the motions. The fire that had once burned inside her had dimmed, and in its place was a cold, hollow ache. She no longer thought of the bakery, or of the life she had left behind in London. Those memories seemed distant, as though they belonged to another person entirely. Her world had shrunk to the confines of the hospital tents, to the never-ending stream of men whose lives she tried, and often failed, to save.

It was early one morning in the summer of 1917 when Florence found herself standing outside the hospital tent, staring out across the barren, war-torn landscape. The sky was a dull gray, the air thick with the smell of smoke and gunpowder. The sound of distant artillery fire echoed in the distance, a constant reminder of the violence that never ceased. She took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs, trying to shake off the weariness that clung to her like a heavy blanket. She had just finished a long shift, tending to men who had been brought in from the front lines, their bodies shattered and broken by the brutality of the war. She had done her best, but it never felt like enough. There were always more men to care for, more lives slipping through her fingers.

Florence closed her eyes for a moment, letting the exhaustion wash over her. She hadn't cried in months—perhaps even a year. The grief was too constant, too overwhelming to process, so she had buried it deep inside. She hadn't allowed herself to feel it because if she did, she wasn't sure she would be able to stop. But today, standing in the stillness of the early morning, with the war raging just beyond the horizon, she felt something stir inside her. A memory surfaced—of Betsy, of Val, of the bakery, of home. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to think of them, to remember what life had been like before the war. She pictured Betsy's bright smile, heard Val's teasing laughter, and felt the warmth of the bakery's oven as they worked side by side.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it, and she quickly wiped it away, angry at herself for letting her guard down. She couldn't afford to feel like this—not now. Not when there were still so many people who needed her. Taking another deep breath, Florence straightened her shoulders and forced herself to move, to head back into the hospital tent. She had to keep going. There was no other choice. The war wasn't over yet, and until it was, she had work to do.

But as she walked back inside, she couldn't shake the feeling that something inside her had changed—that the numbness she had relied on for so long was beginning to crack. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn't sure if she had the strength to hold it all together. Florence pushed the thought aside as she entered the hospital and resumed her work. She could break later, when it was all over. If it ever was.

Alfie remained crouched behind the broken trunk, the smell of blood and death suffocating him as he tried to comprehend the chaos around him. His fingers trembled slightly as he wiped the cold sweat from his brow, the soil of the battlefield mixed with the remains of his fallen comrades clinging to his skin and hair. It felt like a heavy cloak, a constant reminder of the horrors that surrounded him. But for a moment, there was silence—a deep, unsettling silence that contrasted sharply with the cacophony of gunfire and screams that had filled the air just moments before.