The village was quiet, the streets empty. Lieutenant Jack O’Reilly led his squad through the ruins, searching for any sign of the enemy. The war had moved on, but the ghosts remained.
Then they heard it—a drum, soft and steady, echoing through the streets.
“What is that?” Private Miller whispered.
Jack followed the sound, his rifle ready, his heart pounding. The drum led them to the church, its doors open, its altar bare.
A boy sat in the front pew, his hands on a drum, his eyes closed. He was young—maybe twelve—dressed in a uniform from another war.
“Who are you?” Jack asked.