Early October 1936
It began in silence, broken only by the murmur of wind passing hrough pine branches.
In a forgotten valley, hidden between rolling hills and thick forest, a small camp of refugees endured.
The remnants of burnt towns, wounded soldiers, and displaced families found their way here.
No signs marked the trail.
No soldiers patrolled these woods.
It was the kind of place the war had not found yet.
The camp had no name.
Just a few tents stitched from blankets, an old chapel collapsed on one side, and a crumbling stable that doubled as shelter for the sick.
Chickens wandered freely, and children played with sticks while the adults tended fires, cut wood, and watched the tree line with cautious eyes.
In the farthest corner of the camp, beneath a tent reinforced with wooden poles,
Moreau lay unconscious, wrapped in wool and bandages.
His arm was bound to his chest.
His side wrapped tight.
Scars of fire laced his skin.
For days, he hadn't moved.
