It began with a low, rumbling growl, as if the sky itself had begun to convulse. The villagers of Kesseldorf, nestled in a valley once green and soft with spring, heard it long before they saw it. Cows in their pens lifted their heads, wide-eyed, and children stopped their play by the river's edge. They looked up, confused, at the sky that had darkened without warning.
A sudden rush of wind. Then a second of absolute silence—just long enough for them to take in the sight of the planes, sleek and black, cutting through the heavens like crows over a carcass.
No one in Kesseldorf had known what war truly meant. They had read the reports, heard whispers of the frontlines in far-off places, but the valley had remained untouched. Until now.
The first bomb fell on the church, an accident perhaps. It was a misjudgment of coordinates or simply fate's cruelty. The tower crumbled like sand, sending clouds of dust spiraling into the air. The sound was deafening, but the horror came later, as the fire took hold. The blaze spread quickly, licking at the timbered houses, turning them into torches in the night.
Gerhard Muller, a farmer whose hands had known only the soil of his fields, rushed out, clutching his son to his chest. The boy, seven years old, was crying, his voice hoarse from smoke. Around them, women screamed, clutching at the bodies of their dead children or searching for those still lost in the chaos. They had all become orphans to the fire.
The air smelled of burning wood and flesh. Gerhard did not pause to mourn the loss of his home; there was no time for that. His eyes searched the flames for his wife, Anna, who had run toward the schoolhouse when the bombs began to fall. She was supposed to fetch their daughter, Elsa, just five years old, but neither of them had returned.
The second wave came, low and merciless, just as the villagers thought the worst was over. Bombs rained like hail, shredding roofs, trees, and bodies alike. The whine of engines grew louder, more oppressive, until it felt like the sky itself was descending, crushing the breath out of the world.
Gerhard stumbled. His legs buckled as the ground shook, but he didn't let go of his son. He couldn't. Somewhere, beyond the flames, beyond the smoke, was Anna, and he knew that he would die if he did not reach her. He had to believe she was alive, that Elsa was alive. He had to believe.
But Kesseldorf was no longer a village. It was a charred memory, its streets turned to rubble, its people to ghosts.
The planes passed overhead, their bomb bays emptied, their mission complete. They disappeared into the night, leaving behind a silence heavier than the roar of explosions. The fires would burn for hours still, devouring what was left.
In the morning, a faint mist rose from the ground where the bombs had fallen, mingling with the last remnants of smoke. The survivors—those who had found shelter, those who had managed to crawl from the wreckage—wandered aimlessly, their faces blank, their eyes dull with shock. They were searching for names, for faces, for anyone they had once known.
Gerhard stood among them, his son silent at his side. He had not found Anna. He had not found Elsa. And now, in the soft, pale light of dawn, he knew he never would.
There was no sound in the valley, save for the occasional crack of collapsing timbers. The wind, gentle now, carried the ashes of Kesseldorf far away, over fields that had once been green, toward cities that had yet to know such fire.