It was the time when everything was perfect— everything gloriously and blissfully real.

          But, as life and fate may have it, the time had to come to an abrupt end. Lives were torn apart, hopes and dreams were shattered.

          And yet, as life and fate would have it, all were forced to move on.

          Despite that simple, yet glaring and truly unpleasant fact, life had to continue. But those memories were always bared.

          Every time the sirens rang, echoing through the metallic structure — every time, the red warning lights flickered on and off in synch with the sirens — every single time, those indicators of the great War sounded, the memories, the dreadful, painful, heart-breaking memories of the past rang in. The sounds of voices —screaming, crying, whispering— pulsated with the sirens; the scenes of lives gone and lives still being lived flickered into the view of everyone who saw the red lights. How ironic that they were red. Red, the color of the blood that stains.

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