Double Star

26 : The First Letter.

Near the Rhine, Germany
2 April 1945

My dear Laura,

If this letter reaches you, it means I have outrun both bullets and trenches. I write under a wavering candle flame, my hands stiff with cold, while far beyond these ruined walls the guns keep their grim rhythm. The river lies only a few miles away, black and restless under the night, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and cordite.

Fear has a weight. It presses upon the chest, making each breath shallow. Tonight it sits beside me like an uninvited guest — yet I will not let it take your memory from me.

I remember the night in Paris as clearly as I feel the weight of this rifle on my back. It was late autumn, and the city still held the faint scent of smoke from the liberation fires. I had slipped behind the piano at a café on Rue de la Huchette because the bar's musician had not arrived — and music is the only thing I still own that the Army cannot take. Once, I played in quiet cafés along the Breton coast; now my audience wears uniforms, and my hands spend more time loading cartridges than touching ivory keys.

I thought I would play a few tired standards for a room of strangers. Then you appeared.

Your friend was urging you forward, teasing you about a wager you had lost. You stood at the edge of the little stage, your eyes darting toward the door like a bird seeking open sky. I gave you the first chord — low, warm, steady — and you looked at me. I wanted you to hear it in the notes: I am with you.

And then you began to sing.

The first lines of J'attendrai rose into the smoky air, tentative at first, then gathering strength. Every word carried the weight of the war — of women waiting at windows, of men marching into the unknown. You didn't simply sing it, Laura; you made each man in that room believe it. Glasses were set down, laughter faded, and for those few minutes, the war no longer existed.

I have played many songs, but that night was the first time I truly believed music could hold the darkness at bay.

Tomorrow we march east. I do not know if I shall return, but I carry J'attendrai with me — not as a tune, but as the night I met you, proof that even here, beauty endures. 

The candle burns low, and I hear boots crunching on the frozen ground outside. If this is the last I write, remember me at that piano, giving you that first low, warm chord, and watching you sing.

Yours ever,
Willow

POV — Sarah :

The ink was faded, the paper so thin it felt as though it might tear if I breathed too hard. It began with a date — 2 April 1945 — and a place near the Rhine, Germany.

After two nights of decoding, I thought I would find answers. Instead, the papers turned out to be love letters exchanged between two people in the war. Lovers, probably. But who were they? And how did they tie into my family's legacy?

I stared at the words, feeling more lost than before I'd cracked the code. Noelle's laugh floated over from where she was leaning into her boyfriend, Tom, twirling her hair. The bell for math would ring in less than a minute.

"What's that?"

I hadn't seen Luke until he slid into the seat beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. A faint scent reached me — clean, warm, quietly masculine, like it belonged to someone who never tried too hard. A dark bruise marked his chin, a thin cut traced his cheek, and his eyes went straight to the paper in my hands.

I slipped the letter halfway under my notebook, but not fast enough. His gaze lingered on the page, brow furrowing.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, voice low.