Far from the woods, in a quiet neighborhood on the other side of the country, a single house stood in darkness. The only light flickered from an old television set, casting pale shadows across an unkempt living room.
On the screen, a stern-faced newscaster sat behind the desk, papers in hand, her voice steady yet edged with urgency.
"This evening, tensions rise in the Southern Corridor as the Federation of Varlon blocked Anglora Vital Oil shipment route. The blockade threatens one of Anglora's largest sources of crude import, a channel that fuels nearly half the nation's energy needs.
In the capital today, government officials expressed serious concern over Varlon's actions. While Anglora has not yet spoken of war, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs has condemned the blockade as provocative and distabilizing. Sources within the Senate say leaders are divided: some are pushing for immediate military mobilization, while others urge a diplomatic resolution. For now, the official stance remains the pursuit of peaceful negotiation... "
The broadcast was cut off by a gravelly voice in the shadows of the room.
"And then another war will begin… just like twelve years ago."
The voice came from the corner, where empty beer cans littered the floor. Another can slipped from the man's hand, rolling with a hollow metallic clatter before settling.
"Last beer," he muttered, almost mournfully, before sighing into the silence.
The television droned on, filling the room with the sound of strained political statements and footage of frowning ministers. Then, suddenly, the shrill ring of a phone sliced through the dim air.
The man groaned, burying his head into his arm, ignoring it. The ringing stopped, only to resume again, more insistent this time.
With a grunt of frustration, the man stood and flipped on the light switch. Harsh light filled the small living room, revealing a man in his mid-forties with bushy, unkempt hair and a shirt stained with grease. His eyes were sunken, his frame leaner than it once was.
This was Brigaider General Johnson Hillary or at least, what remained of him. Once a decorated officer and the closest friend of Major General Isaac Eckstein, now reduced to a recluse. A man who had buried his uniform, his ambitions, and even his marriage ten years ago, retreating into the hollow life of a small-town cook.
He lifted the phone, pressing it against his ear.
"Sir Johnson, this is Sister Rebecca," came the voice soft, female, familiar.
Johnson's expression shifted, the weariness giving way to faint recognition. "Oh, good evening, Sister. I hope… I hope Winter has been good?"
There was a pause on the other end.
"Winter… Winter…" Sister Rebecca hesitated, her voice trembling as if the words themselves carried guilt. "She left the orphanage already."
Johnson froze. His knuckles whitened against the phone. "What?"
"We... " Rebecca faltered, then rushed on. "She… she beat her roommate. Almost to death. We had no choice but to let her go. To prevent further damage, we had to release her."
The rage came instantly. Johnson's voice thundered down the receiver. "How could you let her leave?! I placed her in your custody! She's just a child! And you let her go?"
Rebecca's silence was her only answer.
With a roar, Johnson hurled the phone against the wall. It shattered on impact, pieces scattering across the floor.
"Incompetent," he spat, his chest heaving.
Silence returned, save for the television's muffled broadcast about looming negotiations and "the hope of peace." But inside Johnson, there was no peace.
He had once been a man of iron discipline, a commander who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Isaac Eckstein. The same year Isaac and his wife were executed, Johnson had walked away from it all. He retired abruptly, divorced his new bride, and vanished from military circles. No one ever understood why. Perhaps grief. Perhaps guilt. Perhaps both.
Now, as he stood in his filthy living room, surrounded by empty cans and broken memories, one truth pressed heavy on his chest:
Twelve years ago had destroyed more than just the Ecksteins.
It had destroyed him too and probably some other soldiers.