A/N: Boy, this is gonna be a quick moving book, lol. Tell me what you think? I've had this story in my doc for a while now, and ran into writer's block, so just kinda stopped writing it. Although, I did write a bit of chapter 2. Tell me what y'all think? Should I continue writing this, or just leave yall wondering what happens next?
18 years later;
Ria sat on the front porch of the farmhouse her family owned. The setting sun shone brightly on the green fields in front of her, the sky was turning a brilliant shade of pink and purple. Her grandfather sat on a rocking chair behind her, smoking his pipe thoughtfully. Alvis had long grey hair, a rough type of face, with a scar adorning his left cheek. He also had a peg leg. At first glance, you'd think that Alvis was a pirate at one point in his life, but once you got to know him, you would find out that he had fought in the war. Most children felt imitated by the great soldier but not Ria. After all, Alvis was her grandfather.
Every night, Ria enjoyed listening to her grandfather tell many stories of his days in the war. Grandpa Alvis was an amazing storyteller, leaving everyone on the edge of their seats. Ria loved him deeply and couldn't wish for anyone better. Her grandfather taught her how to live in the wild, build fires, hunt animals. He taught her how to be strong-willed and determined to do anything. He also taught her how to work hard and if you didn't get it the first time, try again and again.
One the other hand, Ria's grandmother, Sophia taught her how to heal wounds and mend hearts. Sophia was a plump little lady, although she made up for that in her kindness. Her grey-white hair was usually found tied up in a bun, and Grandma Sophia always wore an apron. Whenever Ria felt upset, or needed to talk to someone, she went to the kitchen, finding Sophia baking something delicious. Grandma Sophia taught Ria that kindness was a kind of superpower, one that could stich together broken worlds.
Ria's mother Evelyn was the heart of the family, and the life of it too. Her love was a lullaby in the hard times, her melody seemed to soothe the family's restlessness. Evelyn was tall and slender, with grey-green eyes, long-dark brown hair. She was graceful in everything she did, and slow to anger. Ria loved her and leaned on her for support often.
Henry, Ria's father, was a quiet person. But when he talked in his slow, deep voice, everyone in the room stopped talking. His words were like polished stones-simple yet so profound. Henry was very wise, and taught Ria everything he knew. He taught her the importance of integrity, hard work and standing tall even when the storms raged. He was a lean and tall businessman, sandy blonde hair, and a light-olive skin tone.
Ria also had two siblings, Helena was the oldest, and Steven was the youngest. Of course, like all siblings, they had their squabbles, and fights, but end the end, they were the best of friends. Ria's siblings taught her patience and the art of forgiveness. Their personalities and how close knit they were really shaped who Ria was. Helena taught Ria how to be herself and follow God faithfully, while Steven taught Ria how to laugh and have fun, sharing light.
Ria's family was her constellations in the sky. Her map and guidance. Ria's family made her to be who she was, and so much more.
Ria's heart swayed like the gentle breeze that rustled the leaves around her. The sun dipped low, casting a warm golden hue over the porch where she sat with Grandpa Alvis. His weathered face held stories etched in the wrinkles, and his eyes, like ancient wells, seemed to draw wisdom from the very earth.
"What are you thinking about, squirt?" Grandpa Alvis's voice rumbled, a comforting bass that resonated through Ria's bones.
She glanced at him, her gaze lingering on the lines etched around his eyes. "Nothing much, grandpa," she replied, her voice a soft melody. The rocking chair beside her was stilled, and Alvis settled onto the porch steps, the tobacco-scented smoke from his wooden pipe curling into the air.
He raised a bushy-white eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirking. "What do you mean by 'not much'? I know that look on your face."
Ria's smile deepened. "What I mean is—I love this peace. No famine, no money problems, no war…Just peace and quiet. I wish it wouldn't end." She drew in a lungful of clean air, savoring the simplicity of the moment.
Grandpa Alvis turned his gaze toward the fields, his eyes tracing the horizon. "Peace," he mused, 'is like a delicate stained-glass window. Beautiful, fragile. One wrong move, and it shatters. But sometimes, my dear, we must be willing to fight."
His words hung in the air, heavy with history. "We fight for freedom and peace," he continued, "because if we don't, who will? Who will stand up for their country, humbly and proudly? If no one fought for freedom, America could be chained by the governments of other nations, and we wouldn't be whole."
Ria nodded, her heart echoing the truth in his words. The peace they cherished was a fragile masterpiece, and sometimes, protecting it meant stepping into the fray. As the sun dipped lower, she leaned on to her grandpa, her gaze on the distant hills. "I'll remember that, Grandpa."
And in that quiet moment, with the scent of tobacco and the weight of generations, Ria understood that peace was not passive—it was a battle worth fighting for.
They sat there, cocooned in the embrace the fading day. Birds flitted among the branches, their songs weaving into the fabric of the tranquil evening. The occasional cow's lowing added a rustic symphony to the scene. When the door creaked open behind them, Grandma Sophia stepped onto the porch, her apron still tied around her waist. Her eyes crinkled with warmth as she surveyed the pair.
"Suppers on the table, dears," she announced.
Grandpa Alvis pushed himself up, the wooden porch groaning in protest. He tucked his pipe away, the scent of tobacco clinging to him like a familiar memory. Ria's gaze lingered on the horizon, the sun's golden fingers stretching across the fields. She reached for Alvis's outstretched hand. And together, they rose—the old man and the girl, bound by more than blood.
Sophia held the door open, and the three of them stepped into the cozy farmhouse. The aroma of freshly baked biscuits, sizzling bacon, and scrambled eggs enveloped them. In the well-lit dining room, the rest of the family sat waiting. Alvis settled into the head seat, directly across from Henry. Sophia took her place to Alvis's left, and Ria slid into the chair beside Henry.
Evelyn, her eyes soft, leaned toward her father. "Would you like to say the blessing, Father?"
Alvis nodded, his weathered hands resting on the table. "Aye, daughter. I shall say the blessing." He spoke. He bowed his head, and the room hushed.
"Dear heavenly Father," Alvis began, his words a whispered benediction, "we thank you for this wonderful day that you have given us. We thank you for the food on the table, the warm fire in the parlor, the roof over our heads. May we never take you for granted and love you always and for eternity. Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies we pray. Amen."
Around the table, a chorus of amens rose—a tapestry woven from faith and gratitude. Forks clinked against the plates, and the room buzzed with pleasant chatter. Steven, his cheeks flushed, couldn't contain his delight. "Golly, Grandma! This is good!" His mouth was full, but his eyes sparkled.
Sophia's smile radiated warmth. "Thank you, Steven, dear." And in that shared moment, as the sun dipped below the hills, they savored not just the meal but the bonds that held them together—the fragile stained glass of peace, illuminated by love and grace.
Three weeks—a fragile span of time, like a dew-kissed morning that slips into afternoon. The world, once cocooned in serenity, now trembled on the precipice of chaos. Wars loomed, their shadows stretching across the continents. Europe, a tinderbox, ignited with whispers of battles and bloodshed.
America, for now, stood on the threshold, its feet planted in neutrality. The President dispatched aid—supplies and sustenance—to the war-torn lands. But the air crackled with tension, and the hearts of its people beat in sync with the world's unrest. Young men, fueled by patriotism and duty, flocked to the Army, their resolve etched in every sinew.
And then there was Grandpa Alvis—a relic of valor, a man whose bones carried the weight of history. His grizzled face bore witness to the battles long past, and his eyes held the ghosts of comrades lost. When the call came, he stood at the crossroads, his pipe clenched between weathered teeth.
"I will only join the war when it threatens my country and my people," he declared, his voice a granite promise. Ria, watching him, felt the ache of pride and fear intertwine. She didn't want him to go, but she understood. Freedom had its guardians, and sometimes, they wore the uniform of sacrifice.
Then came the unthinkable—the German bombers descended like vengeful angels upon New York City. The skyline shattered, lives extinguished. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, lost in the blink of an eye. Grandpa Alvis's anger burned hotter than the fires that consumed the city. He donned his uniform once more, his steps resolute.
Ria clung to him; her tears unshed. "Please don't go," she whispered, her voice a fragile prayer. He squeezed her hand, his eyes wells of determination. "Someone must fight for freedom," he murmured, echoing the heartbeat of a nation.
And so, with teary goodbyes and the scent of tobacco clinging to his coat, Alvis journeyed to the Army camp. His parting words hung in the air, a benediction for uncertain days. "Stay strong, love the Lord, be at peace. When this is over, I shall see you again."
The porch, once a haven of peace, stood empty. Ria watched the horizon, her heart torn between longing and resolve. The stained glass of peace had fractured, and now, they would fight to mend it.
Day after day, the Cooper family clung to hope like fragile threads. Grandpa Alvis's letters arrived, inked with love and longing. His words painted vivid scenes—the unrest in the camps, the young soldiers poised for battle. But then, a dreaded missive arrived: Alvis's troop was being dispatched to the front lines in France. The waiting became restless, etching lines of worry on Grandma Sophia's face. She stood at the front porch, her gaze fixed down the dirt lane, as if willing him home.
Inside the cozy living room, life carried on. Sophia rocked in her chair, knitting a navy-blue sweater—a labor of love that would wrap Alvis's shoulders when he returned. Heny sat at the desk, pen scratching across paper, writing letters to important people. Evelyn reclined on the couch, a book in once hand, a cup of tea in the other. Ria and Helena huddled over a chessboard, their moved mirroring the strategic dance of life.
Then came the sound of running feet, and Steven burst into the room. Gasping for breath. Evelyn's book fell forgotten, her eyes wide with concern for her youngest child. "What's the matter? Are you okay?" she asked, her voice edged with fear.
Steven shook his head, eyes darting to Grandma Sophia. "Grandma," he gasped, "there are soldiers walking up the lane…"
Sophia's eyes widened, realization crashing over her like a storm. The knock at the door echoed through the room. Ria strained to hear the soldier's words, but the truth hung heavy in the air, Grandma's sobs pierced the silence. Three days ago, General Albis James P. Carson faced enemy fire. He fought bravely, valiantly—but wounds claimed him, stealing him from his family's embrace.
Time fractured. Grandma retreated, locking herself away, her grief a private tempest. Ria wept into her pillow, her heart a battlefield of loss. Yet life marched on—battles waged; chores persisted. And within Ria, a seed took root—a longing to join the Army, to heal, to fight for the fragile stained glass of peace. Things changed, and they would never be the same again.
Evening fell as always, shadows lengthening. Ria descended the stairs, her footsteps soft against the wooden treads. The office door stood ajar, revealing her parents—Henry and Evelyn—engaged in silent conversation. Ria's hand brushed against the doorframe, a gentle knock announcing her presence. Herny glanced up, beckoning her inside. She crossed the threshold, settling into a chair. Her mother's gaze met hers, eyes tender.
"What's up, sweetie?" Evelyn's voice cradled the words, a haven of understanding.
Ria drew in courage, her heart echoing Grandpa Alvis's wisdom. "I feel like the Lord's calling me to the Army," she confessed. The room held its breath, a thousand unspoken conversations passing between her parents. When they remained silent, Ria pressed on. "Ever since Grandpa told me that freedom comes at a price, that someone needs to guard it, I've felt this longing. The war—it's not going well for us. Soldiers are dying on the battlefield, in field hospitals. If I could help, maybe things would change. I owe it to my country. I want to protect you, Grandma, my friends—I want to give the children of this nation a breath of life."
Silence enveloped them. Henry's voice emerged, gravelly with emotion. "Your intentions are pure, my miracle. But…what if we lost you? You're special; you're my daughter."
"Dad," Ria whispered, her resolve unwavering, "if I don't go, who will?"