Love and War in Northern France

Part 1, Sente-Annе

The language barrier, of course, didn't hinder my enjoyment of autumn in Sente-Anne. Though this was northern France, the air had yet to take on the scent of decaying leaves—trees stood verdant, their tops barely tinged with yellow, while a gentle breeze barely grazed their crowns. Soft grass lay beneath my feet, as if summer were reluctant to retreat, granting Phil and me this leisurely stroll through the square.

It was our first and last quiet evening here.

"Did you manage to catch today's mail?" Phil broke the silence. "I don't see any panic in your eyes. Have you not read it?"

"I've already written a page of my article while someone was sleeping," I shrugged.

Waking up earlier than the entire village was my morning delight.

"'Someone'—is that the whole village?" Phil smirked. "By the way, you didn't answer my question."

I hesitated, settling onto a nearby bench and gesturing for him to sit beside me.

"The last thing I want to think about right now... but I must," I concluded aloud.

Writing had always been my refuge, something akin to a safe haven. Unlike conversations—especially with Americans, whose casualness seemed as distant as another planet. Particularly when it came to war, which knocked not just at the window, but at my mind, constricting my consciousness.

"Maybe there's something good in this," Phil remarked, taking his time to continue.

The rustling of maps and worn papers inside his portfolio accentuated the silence that hung between us. When he finally produced a letter, I momentarily held my breath.

"Louisa Van der Valk," Phil said with a smile, regarding the letter as if studying something rare. "Even I'm surprised!"

I took the letter, unsure of what to say. It was a pleasant surprise. But how did he know how eagerly I awaited these words? Oh, how I longed for those exquisite cursive letters from my sister. Letters from Louisa always carried a piece of home, reminding me that somewhere life existed beyond this war. Her handwriting was not merely text—it was a connection to those days when I knew nothing of blood and fear. The rough edge of the envelope brushed against my fingers, and I barely restrained the urge to open it immediately. She always wrote with such precision that each word seemed to come alive.

"Dear Brother,

How are you? I hope you are safe and that work is going well. Our house remains quiet, thank God, but I hear rumors that war will soon reach us in England. Every day brings new news, and I cannot help but worry. Mother is very anxious, and I feel the fear enveloping our street.

I froze for a moment. Louisa's words stirred anxiety within me. Her letters had always been an oasis of calm, but now they bore a somber undertone. Like thunder on a clear day, the thought of war encroaching upon our home squeezed my chest.

Please, Florian, think about returning. I know your work is important, but we need your support. I want you to be with us when this all begins. I am praying for you.

I closed my eyes, trying to suppress the growing sense of guilt. How could I leave them? Such a short trip to Sente-Anne had become a burden.

With love,

Louisa"

Folding the letter, I felt tears rolling down my cheeks. They were not only for her fear but also for my helplessness. I lifted my gaze and saw Phil watching me with genuine concern.

"Are you alright?" he asked, knowing this question might seem superfluous.

"She wants me to come back," I said quietly, clutching the letter in my hands. "The war is approaching home."

Phil sighed heavily. "You can't abandon them. And perhaps she is right. You should consider returning."

I shook my head negatively. "I can't. I have work, and I must stay here."

"But what is more important, Florian? Your work or your family?"

The question lingered in the air, and I felt the vise of tension tighten around me. This dilemma was becoming unbearable.