"...and there she was writing letters to nobody..."

The immovable desire to feel useful again flickered with the same vehemence as her fingers typed the keys of the typewriter, incessant words, reports of normality and others almost screaming for an order, an order from someone who did not answer her letters, for those letters only disappeared in the wind from the top of her window, getting lost in the clouds.

She opened and closed her palms, clenching her fingers and listening to the sound her metal joints made. She still couldn't get used to it, and often for long nights her body would writhe in pain, for what had once been there was now replaced by metal. "It's called phantom pain," was what Claudia and the doctors explained to her before she was discharged from the hospital that time. it's a pain that only those like Violet can describe.

every day, night after night in her small room violet writhed again and again, she felt that she deserved to suffer, that what for everyone else was the death of Major gilbert buganvillea was for her uncertainty. And the guilt didn't let her live, but what was living?

then, suddenly the door opened wide, violet could not even turn around, the pain was too intense, she felt how some giant arms surrounded her, taking her out of the room abruptly, she could only see the long and braided blue hair, like the hair of Major Gilbert.

...

"All beautiful things have wounds too."

she saw herself sitting on a huge white bed, in a room that looked like a whole house, and in front of her a mirror, Dietfried Bouganvillea gently removed her gloves, to expose her arms, Violet did not take her eyes off the mirror, while they explained to her why the stabbing pain was gone.

But she and her look that seemed to be already thousands of kilometers away from that place was only lost in the familiar face in front of her, "he is alive" were the words that escaped from her mouth, Dietfried and Claudia looked at each other surprised at her words, Violet's cold hands rested on Dietfried's face, because for her it seemed like a dream. Dietfried took Violet's hands in his and pulled them away a little and looked at her again and explained that he was not Gilbert, that Gilbert had been fatally wounded in the war and would not return.

Violet, who spent half her life writing letters to Claudia, many of those letters were from soldiers who would never come home and wished from the bottom of their hearts that their loved ones knew they would never return, many of those letters were from girls wishing the soldiers a safe return and words of encouragement.

Deep in her heart she believed that Gilbert would not have left her so abruptly, not on the day of the siege when he had told her to live.

Dietfried stood up and rested his hand on Violet's shoulder "that day, all he said to you was his farewell letter to you, Violet" and no matter how many letters kept escaping from her window, none would reach their destination, nor would they be read. ...

As night fell deeper into the night, Claudia and Dietfried explained her that from that day on that room would be hers, and that this place would be her home from now on, she would continue to work as a doll, but she would no longer be alone.

The nurses and housekeepers bathed Violet, they did not feel intimidated or afraid of her, and it was normal, the nurses of that time were used to war wounds and the housekeepers of the bouganvillea house had a training with all the men of the family. There was no better place for Violet to be than in that house.

The nurses massaged the joints between her skin and metal, effectively bandaging the area, for Violet had neglected the daily hygiene of the war wounds. She had abandoned herself to the idea of losing herself as well as her eldest Gilbert.

But these people, Claudia, Dietfried and the ladies of the Bouganvillea house had decided to be her crutches to lean on in this new life.

The room that was now hers, had huge windows overlooking a huge terrace overlooking the family garden, with huge white curtains. The bed that was now hers was huge and white, nearby there was a desk with her typewriter and many sheets of paper and pencils, also a huge closet that when opened like flowers waved her dresses for all kinds of events and her shoes.

Violet walked barefoot through the room with a white tunic covering her and her hair wet, that day she was not allowed to wear her uniform, and she had to choose one of those from the closet. She was not a princess or anything like that, but whoever had chosen the clothes was a person who seemed to know her at least a little better, for each garment was simple and did not lose the essence of order with which Violet had grown up while living next to Gilbert.

once dressed, she left the room and walked through the corridors, she felt the smell of Gilbert everywhere, maybe it was not a great idea for her to live there, with the memories of Gilbert haunting her every day, she walked through the corridors feeling very comfortable as if she knew too well where she was going, she stopped in front of a room, turned the door handle and in the window just when the moonlight was shining she thought she saw his eyes.

Before she could set foot inside, Dietfried's hand grabbed her wrist and gently pulled her out of that place, she let herself go with the flow, maybe no one in that place understood her like Dietfried did.

And yet she wondered why the surprising kindness, he no longer looked at her with hatred, nor avoided touching her, even his tone of voice had changed? Does death do things like that?

Where was the hatred with which he always looked at her? where was the violence?