8-past-5.

24th December.

There we stood.

The man, in his weathered uniform.

The girl, in hers.

And I, in mine.

We were but specks among the barren white.

Snow.

Miles and miles of nothing but snow.

“B-Bonjour. Hello.”

“Good day, miz’. Iz’ such a fine day today, iz’ it not? Iz’ such a fine day for zhe’ Christmas time.”

8-past-10.

She extended a hand. “Amelie.”

He accepted. “Schneider. Guzmán Schneider. Pleasure, miz’.”

The two sat side by side, watching a makeshift game of football unfold; the United Imperium States-Guards on one side, the Heimer Republic Troopers on the other. For a moment, it was as if the world stopped spinning; it was as if everything would be alright, would be just fine — would be all better and back to before things were quite as. . . Grim.

But she knew better.

He knew better.

I knew better.

10-past-5.

The match concluded, 3-2 in the Imperium’s favour. Weary and fatigued, some came to huddle around campfires, exchanging gifts and treats; others saw more fit to share stories of past exploits and daring encounters.

I watched from far away, quietly.

The girl and the man too.

“Where from, monsieur?”

“Laestrohm. Iz’ a beautiful city, miz’. And you?”

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“Volburgh.”

“Pretty?”

“Oui, oui. Yes”

12-past-30.

“Where will you go, miz’? After zhe’ war iz’ over.”

“Back home. They’re waiting.”

“Zhe’ family, eh?”

“What about you? Where off too?”

“My mother. . . She iz’ sick. Zhe doctors think she doesn’t have time, miz’ Amelie. I think maybe. . . At zhe’ end of zhis’ month.”

“Sorry.”

“It iz’ what it iz’ — life, miz’. Zhe’ world doesn’t stop spinning for me.”

16-past-45.

They sat there for most of the day chatting amongst themselves, Herr Schneider and Mademoiselle DeRose. Chatting, giggling, snickering — almost like a normal couple.

Which makes it even more of a shame, really.

A damn shame.

Maybe I should’ve said something. Maybe I should’ve told them to walk away.

Together.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been there that day.

On the 24th of December.

On Christmas eve.

19-past-5.

They’re packing up now, both the Heimer Republic and the United Imperium.

Tomorrow, it’s as if today never even happened.

Everybody would’ve forgotten by then.

Everybody but me, that is.

The miracle of Christmas, I suppose.

The girl stifled a tear. “Well, monsieur.”

“Well, miz’.”

“This is it, I guess.”

“Yes.”

“Tell your mother about me?”

“Of course.”

Silence.

“Itz’ been nice, miz’.”

“Oui.”

Silence, again.

“Amelie?”

He opened the palm of one hand.

Out fell a rose.

Red as her lips.

“Iz’ a present for my mother, but. . .”

“Oh, Schneider.”

She brought the bud to her lips, smiling.

“Merci, mon chéri. Thank you.”

“You’re. . . Welcome, miz’.”

They went separate ways.

8-past-5.

25th December.

No one knew, but I did.

Oh, I did.

Somewhere, out there, a mother would die never having seen her son for the last ever time, and a family, their daughter.

Shame.

A real damn shame.