"THE WAR NEVER STARTED WITH GUNFIRE OPR THE FEAR OF DEATH FOR HIM ... IT STARTED WITH JUST SILENCE"
FRANCE 1916
gray light spilled from a tired sky , as it already knew something bad was going to happen in the life of that man . the streets which carried the laughter of people were empty due to war atmosphere ... houses were abandoned .,some even broken down ... waiting for their family to return back who are never coming back . many left the town for their safety ..
Vincent Larson has built one of those homes , not with luck, inheritance, wealth .. but with his very own hands and years of struggle, though it was not a very luxurious mansion but it was a place of comfort where his sweet moments stayed along with him... every wooden beam, unfurnished edge , cracks of wall , carried a piece of him , It was small but warm enough to fill his heart.
ELLA
thinking about her name made him feel even more alone ...
because She was there with him Ella Huet .. , his love of life always stayed with him during his struggle times ... And yet she was gone
the war had taken more than just land-nothing looked the same anymore , his once happy and healthy family was no longer with him
his mother , father and siblings all were taken by war, diseases or the clashes that swept through the town like a merciless tide. He had survived while everyone he loved had perished - sometimes by chances or even sometimes by the cruel destiny .
Vincent exhaled softly , adjusting is worn sleeves of his shirt as he walked through the dirt-stained pathway leading him away from the destroyed village land ... the war had taken more than just land- it had taken familiarity , nothing looked the same anymore .
a sharp wind passed, carrying dust-leaves-ash ,...and something else
a piece of envelope brushed against his old muddy boot..
He almost ignored it but something about the way it landed there made him pause and have a look towards it .
Vincent bent down, picking it up with care ... opening it with his full attention
It was a letter -
folded once, now slightly wrinkled and soaked with mud around its edges , ink had bled in places , words are somehow readable .. He should not have read it - he knew that ...
yet his curiosity made him read the letter -
his mind went numb
he felt a presence which he could not explain
Vincent : 'IS IT REALLY FOR ME'?