Station 1

Part 1: The Boy Before the War "War does not take men. It takes boys and sends back ghosts." The boy had never held a gun, never heard the thunder of cannons, never seen a man die. His hands were meant for building, not for killing—rough from labor but gentle when tracing the carved wooden figures he made for his younger sister. In the quiet village where he was born, war was just a story told by the old men at the market, a distant nightmare that belonged to another world. He grew up in a house that smelled of fresh bread and burning firewood, where the mornings were filled with the chatter of his mother preparing breakfast, his father sharpening tools, and his sister’s giggles as she played with the little wooden animals he carved for her. Life was simple, but it was his. In the summer, he would run through fields of wheat, feeling the golden stalks brush against his fingertips as the sun warmed his back. In the winter, he sat by the fire, listening to his father’s deep voice tell stories of the past—tales of hardship, of love, of lessons learned over time. He had always thought he had time, too. Time to grow, time to dream, time to become the man he wanted to be. He dreamed not of battle, but of a small shop with a sturdy wooden sign hanging above the door, his name etched into the grain. He imagined shelves lined with delicate carvings—birds in flight, wolves frozen mid-howl, tiny figurines of village life, each one telling a story. He saw himself bent over his workbench, hands stained with sawdust, heart light with purpose. He dreamed of a quiet, steady life. But dreams, like peace, are fragile things. And when war came knocking, it did not ask if he was ready. It did not ask if he wanted to go. It did not care for his dreams, nor the warmth of his home, nor the love that rooted him to this place. It simply took him.