The pale morning filters in through the lime yellow blinds of the bedroom.A single ray of dust particles invades the mystery of the dark walls. I am arranging books on Ralf's bookshelf.He loved his books. He loved me the way he did those huge tomes.He was a good man.Gone now.Ten years. Alice lives in the city with her husband George and their kids. My name is Rose.Rose Thompson.This is how my mornings begin.Every day. My gaze falls on the framed picture of Alice and Ralf.Her first birthday.She looks like a doll.Her pink dress an evidence of our morning struggle with baby food.I smile and dust the frame. And then I see it... Old.Tattered.Red.I pull the huge book out and a wilted rose falls out .It was red and blushing when he had given it to me.My mind drifts back to the Summer of 1940... Rose March,22,pretty,full of life.In love. Carl Stevens,23,handsome,drafted.In love. The Luftwaffe bombings had become a routine phenomenon.Men were being drafted in thousands. Killed in millions.