She was young, and her eyes were as blue as the sky above her homeland. She looked at the field where poppies once bloomed, now only a scarred, barren land marked by the wounds of war. But this was her field, her land.
She would not retreat. She could not. She would fight, and in her heart, the same fire that once burned in her chest, when she made plans and the world seemed so simple and bright, would still live on.
But now, that fire was different — cold and full of resolve.
