They said the world turned a page at midnight.
But some pages were inked in blood, others in silence.
And many had never been allowed to write their lines at all.
The clock on Place Bellecour struck eleven.
Around it, couples gathered beneath their scarves, clutching wine bottles and each other.
Laughter rang out.
Some danced.
Others smoked and watched the old year die.
An older woman, hunched beneath a wool shawl, muttered, "Let the new year bring us something softer."
A young man behind her laughed. "Softer? You want softer, madame? Then wish for someone who gives hugs, not speeches."
"Better a speech than a rifle."
"Ha! And what if the speech is the rifle?"
No one answered him.
Near the fountains, two girls kissed beneath the lights, whispering wishes in each other's ears love, freedom, futures untouched by conscription.
But in every corner, whispers danced just behind the celebration.
Estonia.
Austria.
Spain.
"War's coming," a man said turning his collar up.
