The letter was sent she never received it. Why? She walked through town with a red umbrella in her hand. The umbrella, yes, that's important. Rain dropped with loud thuds on the red umbrella. She held it tightly in her hand because of the wind. A walk around town to walk her friend home with a red umbrella. The town was small about 105 houses, a small market, and a gas station. Mia's house wasn't far, only two blocks away, which is why she walked with her with the red umbrella. On the way home the clouds were still grey, the streets were still empty, and no sound was heard. Was she alone? On land, yes, but somewhere else, somewhere above her fingered gloves gripped steering wheels, pressed buttons, and caused destruction. Everyone had prepared for the day like this horrible one. Mary. Poor Mary didn't know why it was quiet, why no one was outside, why she heard loud sirens. Poor Mary didn't know, she thought they were police. She didn't know until the plane came. Until the engine humming above her was finally visible through the clouds. Until she saw the flag of the enemy. She ran. She sprinted, she flew, she bolted. Whichever you would like to use to imagine the sheer terror Mary felt. Poor Mary. She ran through the middle of the street and when she turned in front of her house... In front of her safe house, with a safe basement, and with all the concrete walls. In front of where poor little Mary would be safe. It dropped. She never read the letter, the surprise inside. But her death sparked war. A world war. A war for her. When she met people with stories of bombs and bullets, she'd tell hers. And they'd know, they'd all know. Because their stories were because of her. Because the enemy saw the red umbrella. She'd plead for their forgiveness. But they didn't mind. They'd say, "You gave us something to fight for, we care about you." And she would be happy. She was filled with joy the day she met her mother again. She wasn't alone.