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Each day Sarah spread a cloth on the space between our houses and sewed her wedding canopy.
Each day she embroidered another rose onto the whitest of muslins. She waited, sitting on the grass in her sweater and scarf. We didn't open our door, never came out, yet she knew we could see her. That was satisfaction enough.
What happens to loyalty and betrayal during war? Do they hold back? Wait for a more opportune moment? Or do they rush in, impose themselves over the deadlier, more longlasting pain of tragedy and loss, and complicate everyday lives even further?