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This is a short little thing. It's a letter written by a woman who has witnessed a tragic event. That's pretty much sums it up. The letter is a bit depressing, but I'm sure you can take it. It's not that bad.
Nothing is left. Nothing. Everything is gone. The soldiers swept through the whole town, shooting everyone and everything. Dogs lay dead in the street, bullets through their heads, flies picking at their rotting corpses. People lay alongside them, pools of blood staining the ground. Children, women, and men all lay dead. The soldiers even went into houses. In one house I found a young girl lying in her bed. The only way you can tell she was murdered is by the bullet through her heart, her white cotton gown stained red. In another house I found a boy lying on top of his brother, his eyes wide and open in horror and dread. His brother’s hair dripped the blood that fell from the hole in his forehead. In each house I found many children dead. In yet other houses I found mothers lying on top of their dead children, trying to protect them though it did no good. In one place, I presume it was an orphanage, children lay on top of children, women lying face down on the floor obviously in prayer, ill ones lying in their beds suffering no more, and still other children lay on their beds with their eyes wide open, never having a chance at hope. In the last house I found a baby, its body still and unmoving. I do not understand why someone would be so cruel, so evil, to do this to people. They did not deserve it; no one does. I leave this letter for someone to find; to know that there was once a place here, a place where people lived their lives, trying to survive in a world where others hate. I leave this so people will know the horrors of what I have seen because by the time someone finds this the village will be gone, the corpses returned to the earth, and no trace of any life, not even mine. I will be long gone by the time you read this, dear traveler. Perhaps you are trying to uncover the secrets of a village once existing. Perhaps you stumbled across this by accident. Whatever your purpose, know that people lived here happily. Know that this village was not overcome by hate and was innocent. I leave this last letter, the last proof of a not existing village, to you, whoever you are. I leave this to you in my name. I write this to you as I look up at the sun, the only thing we all share. The sun belongs to no one, and I hope that you realize this, whoever you are. I hope that you find happiness in life and do not ever have to witness the true power of hate like I have. I hope you live in a world that realizes its wrongs and fixes them to the best of its abilities. I say this one last thing: Do not leave here thinking that I am untruthful, for I am not. May God bless the world you live in.
Sincerely,
Cassandra
But no one ever found the letter. In time the village vanished, the corpses returned to the earth, and the woman named Cassandra was gone. No one knew what happened to Cassandra or to the village, or what caused the village to fall. But it was gone. And it would be centuries later that someone would stand on this blood-tainted soil. This person would stare out into the sun as the woman Cassandra did so many years ago. And it would only be then that this person would see a woman standing on the soil, a letter in her hand, her blonde hair whipping around her face, her gaze fixed up on the sun. This person would blink and the woman would vanish, the letter falling to the ground. This person would run for the letter to find nothing, only a phrase of words: the sun, the only thing we all share.
