She wasn’t very fond of November. The icy air pierced her lungs uncomfortably, and autumn’s majestic cloak was beginning to cascade downward. But she strangely anticipated Remembrance Day each year. The wearing of the poppy filled her with an inexplicable sense of pride, and she enjoyed reciting John McCrae’s poem each year to herself as a silent tradition. Unfortunately, November 11th would gain another horrible attribute to remember for years to come.
The past few weeks had given her a heavy secret to bear. As in her usual fashion, she kept the tidbit to herself; her quiet and polite nature only emitting fragments of a true personality. A silent vigor and fervor layered under a veil of complacency and indifference.
Every day for the past week or so, the young woman had been taking long visits to the hospital. Only a select few knew why. Her father was dying and she had to pretend like he wasn’t.
It had been a normal Monday morning. She woke up, ate breakfast,