of better times.

 dark-wolflegionnaire

---

“The army’s retreat had stopped off in friendly territory finally. Three days hence, since the retreat from Reims, they had the safety to pull themselves together. For any soul trying to notice, a thick-coat-clad Hauptmann had slipped into a tiny, vacant home near the outskirts of the village. On his way in it could be seen that in one hand was a large, unopened bottle of whiskey.

If that same soul had deigned to follow the path to the home and press their ear to the door to listen, they would’ve heard little through the night. But if they persisted, amid the suffocating silence that would greet them, they would possibly be able to hear the clatter of glassware, the scratching of wood furniture across the floor, and finally a stifled outpouring of grief.

Quite sobs might echo through the cracks around the door’s frame despite being forcefully silenced from their full intensity of anguish by a need for secrecy. The whispered questions of a suffering mind, the harsh, instinctive sniffles of sorrow, all of it would paint a single picture. A portrait of the greatest loss a soul can, or possibly cannot, bear.”