Rain on the Barn, Snow on the Campus Lawn

France, 1944 — Vladislav, Age 19

Rain lashes the broken roof of the barn. Vladislav hunches beside the radio, fingers trembling as he dials the frequency again. Static. Then a blip. Another. A signal.

He glances at the others — three resistance fighters, soaked and silent. The youngest, barely sixteen, is holding a pistol like it’s heavier than his arm. They’re waiting for word from London- confirmation that tonight’s drop will land in the field behind the monastery.

His job is to listen.

Vladislav adjusts the antenna, heart pounding. The sound clears.

“Le corbeau boit à minuit.”

The raven drinks at midnight.

That’s the code. It’s on.

He nods once. The others move. No words. Just gear checks and grim faces. In an hour, they’ll be risking their lives to retrieve weapons, documents, hope in canvas bundles. Vladislav lingers behind to send a final signal back-

“Réception confirmée.”

Message received.

His voice cracks but the message goes through. He slips the headphones off. For the first time in days, he lets out a breath. He’s alive. They all are — for now.

New York, 2024 — Mark, Age 19

Mark stares at his phone. The email is still there.

Subject- Academic Probation Notice

Third time this semester. His parents don’t know yet. They think he’s acing computer science, not sleeping through it. They think he’s applying to internships, not skipping classes and doom-scrolling in the library basement.

He throws the phone on the bed and paces. He can’t breathe in this tiny dorm room, with its half-eaten pizza and posters peeling off the walls. Everyone around him seems to know what they’re doing, where they’re going.

Not him.

He opens his laptop. Not to study. Just to distract himself. But he ends up clicking a folder he hasn't opened in a year- “Grandpa’s Letters.”

It was for a genealogy project he dropped sophomore year. His mom had scanned them — old letters, some typed, some handwritten, sent decades ago by his grandfather, Vladislav, who’d rarely spoken about the war out loud.

Mark starts to read.

1944

They reach the drop site late. The crates are there, nestled in tall grass like sleeping beasts. Vladislav stays back, watching, listening. Every rustle could be a betrayal.

A sudden movement in the trees. A light.

A voice calls out in German.

Gunfire erupts. Screams. Henri dives forward, yelling at the others to run. His silhouette lights up in the muzzle flashes before he collapses.

Vladislav hits the ground. The world contracts to dirt and breath.

Someone’s running. Someone’s not.

He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move.

Then silence.

2024

Mark scrolls through the scanned letters. Yellowed paper. Blocky handwriting in French and English. He reads one dated August 1944. Vladislav describing the night Daymond was killed. Seventeen. Shot trying to protect the others.

The words shake something loose in Mark. His grandfather wrote-

“I was just a boy. But that night, I decided- I could stay scared forever. Or I could keep moving.”

Mark sets the laptop aside. He looks at the mess in his room. The dark circles under his eyes in the mirror. The unopened emails. The silence he’s wrapped around himself like a blanket.

He doesn’t know what to do with the heaviness pressing down on him.

But he feels it- someone made a choice back then so he could even be here.

1944

They bury Daymond in the woods the next morning. No cross, no words. Just a shallow grave and a promise that he won’t be forgotten.

Vladislav walks back to the barn. He’s alone now. The others are gone — dead, captured, or scattered into hiding.

The radio still works.

He sends a message.

“Still alive. Awaiting orders.”

The antenna crackles. No reply. But he repeats the signal every night, just in case.

Because as long as he’s alive, he can still be of use.

2024

Mark sits on his bed, laptop balanced on his knees, reading more letters. Some are mundane- ration lines, coded updates, cold winters. Others carry pain. Vladislav writing about fear. About guilt. About pushing through both anyway.

A line hits him hard-

“Courage isn’t about what you feel. It’s what you do when you feel everything.”

He reads it three times, mouth dry.

The next morning, he wakes up early for once. He walks across campus with his heart pounding like it’s being chased. His palms sweat the whole way.

He knocks on his advisor’s office door.

“I need help,” he says. “And I want to get back on track.”

It’s not a grand gesture. It’s not heroic.

But it’s a start.

1944

Weeks pass. Then word comes through — barely a whisper. The Allies have landed. Resistance cells across the region are moving.

Vladislav is told to sabotage a bridge. It’s no longer about waiting. It’s time to act.

He doesn’t hesitate.

That night, he plants charges under cover of fog. His hands are steadier than they were a month ago. His fear hasn’t vanished, but he knows what to do with it now.

The bridge collapses in a thunderclap that echoes for miles.

Vladislav doesn’t wait for praise. He moves on.

2024

Mark emails his professors. Tells them he’s ready to work. Asks what it’ll take to claw his GPA back.

He signs up for tutoring. He switches out of a class he hates. Starts going to therapy.

He’s still behind. Still overwhelmed. But not stuck.

That night, he prints out one of Vladislav's letters and tapes it above his desk.

“Still alive. Awaiting orders.”

Every time he looks at it, something shifts. It’s not about being fearless. It’s about not folding. About answering when the moment calls.

1945

Winter breaks across the French countryside. The war winds down in fragments and rumors.

Vladislav walks into a liberated village, boots caked with snow and ash. Children run through the streets. Bells ring. People shout and sob.

He doesn’t cheer. He just walks to the town hall and delivers one last message on the resistance’s battered radio-

“Mission complete. Survivors few. Memory strong.”

He signs the letter “V.”

Then he leaves the building and doesn’t look back.

2025

Graduation day. Mark stands in a crowded auditorium, tassel lopsided, program crumpled in his hand.

He’s not top of the class. He’s not even on stage. But he made it.

His parents are in the third row, crying too much. He doesn’t stop them.

Later that night, back in his now-empty dorm, Mark opens his laptop and rereads the final letter Vladislav ever wrote — dated 1945.

It ends with-

“The fight ends, but the work never does. Stay ready.”

Mark leans back in his chair.

He’s still alive.

And he’s ready.