, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

War stole years, not just from me, but from the land, from my city, from a boy who once shook the stained designs upon the floor with hearty laughs and sweet flutterings of lashes.

His voice no longer echoed in the abbey, in the alcoves of the windows where I’d sit with him; the glass has shattered from the raging storms, the pieces left in jagged shards within his grave.


Image by silentfield (on ArtStation)

And the nostalgia reigns as the POV grows up. But good stories never end there, for they need to have the ‘sweet’ in bittersweet to be truly remembered.