A winter wind fails to chill a plethora of fire. Defiant and joint chants cut still and solemn air. Teary smiles fight grief and move to acknowledge a legacy of red left valiantly behind. Blood has been spilt, but not lost.
That carmine spirit dots a black sky. It is a most brilliant red that slowly fades in the hollow black.
No one knows how poignant a red it is except Anna. This – without a doubt – will be a red she will engrave into her memory before the monochrome remnants of a battle are all that's left.
There are plenty of reds in the world, but none like his, and he has gone.
He has gone.