The rain of the fifth month after Christmas had just stopped. I, the earliest to rise, leaned on the edge of the trench, greedily breathing in the air.
I saw the poppies in bloom.
The rain had washed away the chlorotic fog. Rising from the deep gray earth—were the poppies truly that scarlet?
A maiden in red and white, golden hair floating in the pale wind.
“Flandre,” I called her.
I had seen her dance, ignoring the mud of the field. Her steps grew wilder with the falling raindrops, and in an instant, she dissolved into the rain.
She looked at me, her iridescent wings slowly spreading.
I wanted to touch her wings, even if it cost me my life—and only the latter came true.