Chapter Twenty-Four
Micha sat in his small office and listened as the clock struck the first sound of midnight. He poured himself a shot glass of vodka and raised it to his lips. His old hand trembled as he looked at the picture of his lovely wife and young son who were killed in the war over fifty years ago on Christmas Day. Tears filled his eyes as he lifted them from the picture to the window of his office. His eyes froze on the Christmas rose.
He set the glass down on the scarred surface of the old desk with a small thud, spilling some of it onto the wood. Rising out of his seat on shaky legs, he moved as if in slow motion. He took his battered cap off the peg by the door before slowly opening it. He walked toward the beautiful plant, pausing as a petal fell with each sound of the be
