Soldiers pass by the small, worn-down hut.
My brother hides in the basement;
A crash on the floorboards,
Blood stains the old wood.
A man, not our own,
Yet, not much different at all.
Days pass, and still he is cared for.
Nights spent dreaming of a life outside of bloodshed and loss.
Conversations spark, and a bond forms between those destined for enmity.
He is healed.
The fantasy ends.
There is still war.
I have yet to find peace.
But in him,
There is hope.