Love is a tempestuous mistress. And none of us shall ever master her.

My sparrow, she flickers and wakes and sings and sings.

I watch her as she leaves. Everything about her is fluid as a river. Her messy hair, her xylophone voice, the strokes of her paintbrush. Even her camouflage army jacket hangs loose, flowing like ribbons.

Still, I look down, and the grass is so green, I cannot understand how it does not wither and die with sorrow. But against the emerald carpet, the warriors make war, and it is like a dance, almost beautiful, always macabre. The noise brings me back, the fearsome noise of swords striking swords, a metallic clanging that rings in my ears, echoing and echoing the fearsome din of men screaming and crying as they meet the sharp ends of blades.

Merry Christmas, I whisper to myself. Merry Christmas, Nate.

And at that moment, a lilting melody lifts to the moon as a single sparrow sings.

The birch trees loom ahead like a brotherhood of ghosts.