8-past-5.


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    24th December.


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    There we stood.


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    The man, in his weathered uniform.


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    The girl, in hers.


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    And I, in mine.


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    We were but specks among the barren white.


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    Snow.


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    Miles and miles of nothing but snow.


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    “B-Bonjour. Hello.”


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


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    8-past-10.


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    She extended a hand. “Amelie.”


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


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    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.


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    But she knew better.


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    He knew better.


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    I knew better.


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    10-past-5.


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    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.


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    I watched from far away, quietly.


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    The girl and the man too.


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    “Where from, monsieur?”


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


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    “Volburgh.”


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    “Pretty?”


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    “Oui, oui. Yes”


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    12-past-30.


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


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    “Back home. They’re waiting.”


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    “Zhe’ family, eh?”


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    “What about you? Where off too?”


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


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    “Sorry.”


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


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    16-past-45.


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


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    Which makes it even more of a shame, really.


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    A damn shame.


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


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    Together.


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    Maybe I shouldn’t have been there that day.


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    On the 24th of December.


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    On Christmas eve.


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    19-past-5.


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


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


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    Everybody would’ve forgotten by then.


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    Everybody but me, that is.


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    The miracle of Christmas, I suppose.


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


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    “Well, miz’.”


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    “This is it, I guess.”


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    “Yes.”


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    “Tell your mother about me?”


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    “Of course.”


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    Silence.


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    “Itz’ been nice, miz’.”


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    “Oui.”


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    Silence, again.


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    “Amelie?”


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    He opened the palm of one hand.


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    Out fell a rose.


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    Red as her lips.


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


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    “Oh, Schneider.”


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    She brought the bud to her lips, smiling.


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    “Merci, mon chéri. Thank you.”


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    “You’re. . . Welcome, miz’.”


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    They went separate ways.


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    8-past-5.


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    25th December.


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    No one knew, but I did.


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    Oh, I did.


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


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    Shame.


    A real damn shame.