1944
Rhone, France
Leo

The sky was of an arctic blue tint, the clouds gathering above the city scape of Berlin.

I remembered it all so clearly, as  if reliving the old forgotten moments from so many years ago.

1937,

"Go on," egged Fraulein Zemirah, motioning Matteo to come closer to me. 

Eight year old Matteo said nothing, his honey glazed brown eyes boring into my own. I extended my hand to him. It was an invitation, an unspoken promise of trust to each other. a wan smile formed on his lips as he readily accepted with an almost reverent touch. My fingers intertwined with his in a delicate clasp.

Fraulein Zemirah let out an audible sigh as she watched the two of us walk hand in hand down the plaza in central Berlin.

People, once leisurely strolling along the boardwalk, now quickened their pace, casting wary glances at the horizon that seemed to darken by the minute. The first raindrops were hesitant, delicate kisses on the skin, followed by a crescendo of cool, refreshing showers.

"It's raining Leo!" he exclaimed.
 

The cobbled streets quickly became a mosaic of dark splotches, and the laughter turned to shrieks as raindrops drummed on the umbrella.The rain fell steadily, a curtain of silver threads, transforming the sun-drenched landscape into a shimmering watercolor painting. Matteo's face was upturned to the sky, eyes squeezed shut in delight. Each drop was