CHAPTER FOUR: THOUGHTS

The sharp chill of the night air bit into Nathan's skin as he marched alongside his unit across the stone bridge. His breath was shallow, barely noticeable over the rhythmic clinking of boots on the cobblestones. The weight of his rifle slung over his shoulder was a constant, unwelcome reminder of the war that had swallowed him whole. He didn't belong here. Not in France, not in this uniform, not on this side of history.

But what choice had he really been given?

The orders came down from high command, faceless men pushing pawns across a bloodied chessboard, and Nathan had been one of those pawns. Just like the rest of the soldiers marching beside him. He glanced at them out of the corner of his eye—cold faces, hardened expressions. Men who had been in the fight for far longer than him. Some had likely been part of Hitler's army from the very beginning, but not Nathan. He had been drafted late, pulled into the fray when the war effort became desperate. He had been a farmer, a man of the land, and now here he was—an invader in a country that had once seemed so far away, a world removed from his peaceful life in rural Germany.

The war had erased the simplicity of his old life, leaving only this: endless nights of marching, shooting, and following orders he didn't believe in.

The bridge loomed ahead, its structure dark against the inky sky. He knew this was no ordinary patrol. The officers had been on edge for days, whispers about the French Resistance moving through the ranks like wildfire. There were rumors of a planned attack, sabotage, explosions. They were there to secure the bridge, a critical supply line for the German troops moving deeper into France. But the truth was, Nathan didn't care about the bridge, or the supply line, or the war. He cared only about surviving the night.

His thoughts drifted back to his small village in Germany, to the fields he used to till, to the family he had left behind. His father, once a proud man, had seen the rise of the Nazis with a mixture of fear and disgust. He had tried to keep Nathan out of it, but the war had come for them all eventually. And now his father was dead, his farm reduced to ash by Allied bombings. Nathan was all that remained of a life that had once been simple, before the world had gone mad.

As they neared the center of the bridge, the sound of the river rushing below filled Nathan's ears. The water was dark and swift, a dangerous reminder of how easily life could be swept away. He tightened his grip on his rifle, the unease in his gut growing stronger. Something didn't feel right, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

And then, he saw them.

Movement—just the faintest flicker of shadows beneath the bridge. His breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding against his ribs. He was about to call out, to alert his comrades, but something stopped him. He hesitated, squinting through the dim light. There was a figure, crouched low, moving with deliberate care. A civilian? A Resistance fighter?

Before he could think further, the officer at the head of the patrol barked an order, and the group came to a halt. Nathan's hand hovered over his rifle, his body tensed as he prepared for what would come next. The officer stepped forward, scanning the area with sharp, predatory eyes.

But the moment passed. The officer, apparently seeing nothing, gestured for them to continue. Nathan swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay in line, to keep moving. His heart hammered in his chest as they crossed the bridge, unaware of the danger lurking just below their feet. He couldn't shake the image of the shadowy figure, but he said nothing. What could he say? He was a soldier, and soldiers followed orders. He had no room for doubt or hesitation.

As they reached the far side of the bridge, something shifted in the air. A sudden tension, like the crackle of a storm about to break. Nathan's head snapped up, his eyes darting back toward the center of the bridge. And then it happened.

The explosion.

The ground beneath him seemed to buckle, the force of the blast throwing him off his feet. His ears rang, the deafening roar of the explosion drowning out everything else. For a moment, everything was chaos. Smoke filled the air, choking him as he struggled to his knees. He could barely see through the thick cloud of dust and debris.

Bodies. There were bodies everywhere.

Nathan's heart raced as he scrambled to his feet, his rifle forgotten in the confusion. He could hear shouting, German and French voices mingling in a chaotic jumble. Gunfire erupted, sharp and brutal, as soldiers fired blindly into the smoke. But Nathan didn't move. He stood there, frozen, his mind spinning.

And then, through the haze, he saw her.

A woman, running along the edge of the bridge. She was dressed in dark, tattered clothes, her face smeared with dirt and blood. Her eyes were wide with fear, but there was something else there, too—something defiant, determined. She moved with purpose, ducking and weaving through the chaos like a ghost.

Nathan's breath caught in his throat as their eyes met. For a split second, time seemed to stop. He couldn't explain it, but there was something in her gaze that held him captive. He should have raised his rifle, should have called out to his comrades, but he didn't. He just… watched.

And then she was gone, disappearing into the smoke like a phantom.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. The Germans managed to regroup, but the bridge was destroyed, and the Resistance fighters had vanished into the night. Nathan moved mechanically, following the orders barked at him by his superiors, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't shake the image of the woman—her face, her eyes, the way she had looked at him.

When dawn broke, Nathan found himself sitting by the riverbank, staring out at the water. His uniform was torn, his body bruised, but it wasn't the physical pain that weighed on him. It was something deeper, something he couldn't quite name.

Who was she? Why hadn't he raised his rifle?

He didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn't stop thinking about her.

The days that followed were a blur of exhaustion and confusion. The bridge's destruction had thrown the German forces into disarray, and the hunt for the Resistance fighters intensified. Every street, every alley, every shadow became a potential threat. Nathan's patrols became more frequent, more brutal, as the German army sought to root out the Resistance cells hiding in the city. But even as he carried out his orders, his mind was elsewhere.

He couldn't forget her.

He didn't tell anyone about what had happened on the bridge that night. He didn't mention the woman, or the strange, fleeting connection he had felt. It was his secret, buried deep beneath the surface of his thoughts, hidden from his comrades and even from himself at times. But it gnawed at him, growing stronger with each passing day.

One evening, as he walked through the narrow streets of Paris, he found himself near the riverbank where the bridge had once stood. The city was quieter now, the sounds of war muffled by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional clatter of boots on cobblestones. He stopped by the edge of the water, staring down at the murky depths below.

It was there, standing alone by the river, that he realized something had changed. He couldn't go on like this—marching through the streets, following orders, pretending that the war was something he believed in. He didn't belong here. He didn't belong on this side of the war, on this side of history.

And yet, what could he do? He was just one man, a soldier in a war that seemed to stretch on forever.

As he stood there, lost in thought, a voice broke through the silence.

"You shouldn't be out here alone."

Nathan spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Standing a few feet away was a man—French, by the look of him. His clothes were ragged, his face gaunt, but his eyes were sharp, alert. Nathan's hand instinctively went to his rifle, but the man held up his hands in a gesture of peace.

"I'm not here to fight," the man said quietly. "I'm here to talk."

Nathan hesitated, his mind racing. This was dangerous. He shouldn't be standing here, speaking with a Frenchman—especially one who might be part of the Resistance. But something in the man's eyes, something in his calm demeanor, made Nathan lower his hand.

"What do you want?" Nathan asked, his voice rough.

The man smiled faintly. "I want to know why you didn't fire."

Nathan's blood ran cold. He had been careful, hadn't he? He hadn't told anyone about the woman, about what had happened on the bridge. How could this man possibly know?

"I saw you," the man said, his tone matter-of-fact. "That night on the bridge. You saw her, didn't you? The woman. You could have shot her, but you didn't."

Nathan's mind raced, his pulse quickening. He opened his mouth to deny it, to say something, but no words came out. The man watched him for a moment before taking a step closer.

"She's one of us," he said quietly. "And you let her go. Why?"

Nathan swallowed hard, his throat tight. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I just…