Cecelia

Cecelia woke to the cold of the floor.

For a moment, she didn’t move. The world felt distant, as if she had surfaced from somewhere deep and unreachable. Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. The room was small — wood floors worn smooth with age, wallpaper peeling in long curls, furniture that looked as if it had been passed down too many times.

Beside her lay another girl beneath a thin, patchy blanket.

Cecelia pushed herself upright. Her clothes were torn. Her shirt was stiff.

When she touched it, her fingers met dried blood.

Her breath caught.

“Who are you?” she whispered, her voice trembling with a faint German accent. “Where am I?”

The girl beside her jolted awake and immediately clamped a hand over Cecelia’s mouth.

“Shhh,” she whispered urgently. “Please — keep your voice down. Do you want them to find us?”

Before Cecelia could respond, the night shattered.

An explosion thundered somewhere close to the house, followed by a rapid succession of smaller blasts. The walls seemed to flinch. Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed.

Cecelia pulled away. “Who are you?” she said, louder now, panic rising. “I don’t want to be here.”

“I know you’re frightened,” the girl said quickly. “This is the safest place to be right now.”

“I want my mother and father,” Cecelia said. “I was just with them.”

The girl hesitated. “Were you?”

Cecelia frowned. “Yes. At the market.”

“And after that?”

Cecelia opened her mouth to answer.

Nothing came.

Her hand drifted again to the stain on her shirt. She stared at it as if it belonged to someone else.

“Where are my parents?” she asked.

The bedroom door creaked open.

A man and woman stood in the doorway, their faces lined with fear and exhaustion. They spoke softly, their voices careful.

“Molly,” the woman said, “have you packed your things? We are leaving soon.”

Cecelia stood, staring at them without moving closer.

“Don’t worry, child,” the man said gently. “You are safe here.”

“Safe from what?” Cecelia asked.

A loud knock echoed from somewhere below.

The man and woman exchanged a look — sharp, immediate, terrified.

“You must hide,” the man said quickly. “Both of you. Keep quiet. Do not come out until I tell you.”

They disappeared down the stairs.

Molly grabbed Cecelia’s hand, and together they ran to the closet, pulling the door shut behind them.

Downstairs, the front door opened.

The sound of explosions rushed in with the night air.

A voice — firm, cold — cut through the house.

Orders.

Boots followed.

Inside the closet, the darkness pressed close.

Cecelia’s breathing quickened. She could feel Molly beside her, rigid and listening.

Then, without warning, Cecelia shifted.

She pushed the closet door open just enough to see.

“Did you not hear them?” Molly whispered harshly. “We mustn’t be seen. They could be Americans.”

But Cecelia didn’t respond. She was already looking.

In the foyer below, a soldier struck Molly’s mother across the face.

The sound was sharp. Final.

Her father was shoved aside. Both of them stumbled out of sight as more soldiers flooded into the house, their presence filling every corner.

Cecelia slammed the closet door shut and stumbled back.

“They’re coming,” she whispered.

Footsteps climbed the stairs.

The bedroom door opened.

Drawers were pulled. Furniture shifted. Voices moved through the room with methodical precision.

Then—

The closet door flew open.

Light flooded in.

A soldier stood above them, a flashlight cutting through the dark. The beam landed on their shirts.

Cecelia froze.

The bloodstain had spread, smeared across her chest.

Where something had once been.

The soldier reached for his weapon.

Paused.

Looked again.

Then lowered his hand.

“Nothing here,” he muttered. “No star. Only German.”

The door slammed shut.

Darkness returned.

Time passed without shape.

The girls shifted, breathed, waited. The sounds of the house ebbed and flowed—boots, distant voices, the constant, dull thunder of bombs far away.

Eventually, Cecelia spoke.

“Did those soldiers do something to my parents?”

Molly didn’t answer right away.

When she did, her voice was quieter than before.

“Your parents were killed,” she said. “A bomb went off at the market yesterday morning. You were there. You were knocked unconscious.”

Cecelia didn’t move.

“Luckily,” Molly continued, “we were able to bring you here.”

The words hung in the dark, heavy and irreversible.

The closet door opened again.

Both girls flinched, shrinking back into the corner.

But the man standing there was different.

His uniform was olive, not brown. His face was young, uncertain, lit softly by the hallway behind him. On his sleeve, a small patch — “Oklahoma” — stitched into the fabric.

“Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I won’t hurt you.”

He reached down and helped them to their feet.

Cecelia hesitated for only a moment before taking his hand.

Behind him, the house no longer sounded the same.

The shouting had stopped.

The war, at least in this place, had moved on.

And for the first time since she woke, Cecelia stepped forward into something that almost felt like quiet.