CHAPTER THREE: MEMORIES

Maria closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. The memories, or dreams—she wasn't sure what to call them—flooded her mind. When she began to speak, her voice was low, as though she were pulling the words from a place buried deep within her.

"So, back in 1944," she began, her voice carrying the weight of another lifetime. "France was not the romantic, idyllic place people imagine. It was a country under siege, a place teetering on the edge of collapse, and every day felt like the last. The war had been going on for years. By then, people didn't talk about when it would end; they only thought about whether they would survive another day."

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the war-torn streets of Paris. Bomb craters and piles of rubble filled the spaces where buildings had once stood. The occupation was suffocating, pressing down on the people with a weight they could barely carry. German soldiers patrolled the streets, their boots a constant reminder of the enemy's presence. The air was thick with fear and the smell of smoke from fires that had never really gone out.

"I lived in the heart of Paris," Maria continued, her voice steady now, lost in the dream. "Or what was left of it. The Resistance was all that kept hope alive, but hope was a dangerous thing to have. I had joined the Resistance not long after the occupation began. I didn't know much about war, but I knew what it felt like to be suffocated, to see your country stripped of everything that made it beautiful, and I couldn't just stand by."

Paris, once the city of light, had become a shadow of its former self. The cafes where people once sipped coffee and discussed art and literature now sat empty or had been converted into makeshift barracks for German officers. The streets echoed with the silence of a people forced to bow to an enemy they hated but feared more.

"I was part of a small cell," Maria said. "There were about ten of us, spread out across the city, each with different roles. I worked as a courier, delivering messages and supplies between cells. It was dangerous work. Every day was a gamble—you never knew when the Gestapo would be waiting around the next corner."

She could still remember the cold fear that gripped her every time she stepped out onto the street. The Germans had eyes everywhere—collaborators, informants, anyone willing to sell out their fellow Frenchmen for a loaf of bread or a false sense of security. Trust was a luxury they couldn't afford.

"I remember one night, late in the summer of 1944," Maria continued, her voice growing quieter. "We were planning something big, something that could turn the tide of the war, at least for our part of France. There was a bridge just outside the city, and the Germans were using it to move troops and supplies to the front. If we could destroy it, we could slow their advance. It wasn't going to win the war, but it could buy us time, give us a fighting chance."

The plan was simple on paper, but nothing about war was ever simple. They had explosives, carefully rationed from what little supplies the Allies could smuggle in. The target was heavily guarded, but they had a plan. Timing was everything. The Germans had patrols that crossed the bridge at regular intervals, and there was a gap—just long enough for them to get in, plant the explosives, and get out before the patrols returned.

"I was with Jacques that night," Maria said, a small smile playing on her lips. "He was older, maybe in his fifties, but he moved like a man half his age. He had lived through one war already, and now he was living through another. He'd lost everything—his wife, his children—so he had nothing left to fear. I think that's why he was so good at what he did. He wasn't reckless, just… resolved."

The night was cold and dark, the kind of darkness that seemed to swallow sound. They had moved in silence, crossing the fields that surrounded the bridge, staying low to avoid being seen. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, giving them the cover they needed, but it also made it harder to see what they were doing. Maria could still feel the weight of the small pack of explosives strapped to her back, each step a reminder of how precarious their situation was.

"When we reached the bridge, we split up," Maria continued. "Jacques and I went to the far side, while the others took the near side. The plan was to set charges at each end and blow the whole thing, cutting off the Germans' supply route. We had rehearsed it a hundred times in our minds, but when you're actually there, crouching in the mud, the reality is different."

They worked quickly, every second feeling like an eternity. The sound of the river rushing beneath the bridge was the only noise that broke the silence. Maria's hands shook as she placed the charges, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the glint of a German helmet at any moment.

And then it happened.

"Just as we finished setting the last charge, we heard them," she said, her voice dropping. "German soldiers. We hadn't expected them to come this way so soon, but there they were, marching across the bridge. I could hear the clink of their boots on the stone, the low murmur of their voices. Jacques motioned for me to stay down, to wait. But I couldn't. I had to see."

She risked a glance over the edge of the bridge, and that was when she saw him.

"You," she whispered. "Well, not you, not Ethan, but a man. A German soldier. Tall, dark hair, young—he couldn't have been more than twenty-five. He wasn't like the others. He didn't move like them. He looked… lost."

The soldiers passed by, oblivious to the explosives hidden just beneath their feet. Maria had frozen, her eyes locked on the young soldier, her heart pounding in her chest. It didn't make sense—he was the enemy, and yet, in that moment, she couldn't bring herself to hate him. There was something different about him, something that made her hesitate.

"We waited until they were gone," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "And then we detonated the charges. The bridge went up in a cloud of smoke and fire, and for a moment, we thought we had done it. But the Germans were fast. They were on us before we could retreat, and everything went wrong."

Maria's breath hitched as she remembered the chaos that followed. The sound of gunfire, the shouts in German and French, the sudden flash of pain as a bullet grazed her arm. They had been caught, trapped between the river and the advancing soldiers. Jacques had pushed her into the water, yelling for her to swim, to get away, but she had hesitated.

"I looked back," she said softly. "I don't know why, but I did. And that's when I saw him again. The same soldier. He was standing on the other side of the bridge, just watching. He didn't raise his rifle, didn't move. He just stood there, as if he didn't know what to do."

The memory faded, replaced by the cold, dark waters of the river as she had plunged beneath the surface, her lungs burning as she fought to stay afloat. She had managed to swim to the far bank, pulling herself out of the water, shivering and gasping for breath. Jacques hadn't made it. Most of the others hadn't either. But she had survived, barely.

"The war went on," Maria said, her voice distant. "We kept fighting, kept resisting. But I never saw him again. That young soldier. He was just a moment in a sea of chaos, a fleeting glimpse of something I couldn't understand."

She paused, her eyes flickering as the dream began to fade, replaced by the distant hum of the world outside.

"Looking back, I don't know if it was real," she said softly. "Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me, trying to make sense of something senseless. Or maybe… maybe it was something more. A connection, a brief moment of recognition in the middle of all that darkness."

But Maria didn't linger on the thought. The war, the bridge, the young soldier—they were all just pieces of a puzzle she couldn't quite put together.