Sokovia—A name barely whispered on the tongues of those outside its shattered borders.
Located in the eastern stretch of the European continent, surrounded by land and sea, it was once a jewel among nations. Small, yes—but not insignificant. In its prime, Sokovia had been a land of rolling meadows, glimmering rivers, and cities that gleamed under the sunlight like polished stone. A hidden beauty. A quiet paradise from fairy tale.
But that was ten years ago.
Ten years since the civil war began.
With no strong army to quell the uprising, and with foreign factions meddling behind the scenes, the conflict had dragged on endlessly—like a wound that refused to heal. Ten years of death. Of fire. Of ruin.
In Sokovia... this kind of scene was common.
The cities bore the scars of unending violence. Once-thriving neighborhoods now lay in rubble, whole districts flattened by missile strikes. Concrete husks of buildings stood like broken teeth jutting from the earth—windows shattered, walls pockmarked with bullet holes. Even the few houses left standing looked like ghosts of themselves, sagging and scorched, their wooden frames creaking in the wind.
The streets were wide, but empty. Once bustling with laughter and life, they now echoed only with silence.
A city built for millions... now held barely fifty thousand.
People walked the cracked pavement with lifeless eyes, their steps heavy, their voices hollow. They moved like shadows—like zombies—haunted by the past, unable to imagine a future.
This place was no longer a city. It was a battlefield frozen in time.
And yet—if one left the ruined streets behind and ventured past the outskirts of town, a different world revealed itself.
Only a few kilometers out, the jagged ruins gave way to nature's defiance: a vast forest untouched by the war.
No shellfire. No smoke. No corpses.
Here, the trees stood tall and proud, their branches weaving a canopy of deep green above. The air was cleaner. Softer. Time itself seemed to move differently in the woods—slower, calmer, as if the forest had refused to bow to mankind's madness.
The civil war had emptied the land of people, and so the forest thrived. Wild. Uninterrupted. Free.
And hidden deep within this sea of green, where even the animals tread quietly, stood something truly rare.
A wooden house.
Not just any house—a cabin, nestled as though the forest had chosen to protect it. The wooden structure rose from the mossy earth with gentle pride, as if it had grown there alongside the trees. Its logs were weathered smooth by time and rain, its roof heavy with moss like a velvet crown. Lanterns flickered inside, casting a soft, golden glow that spilled through the windows and danced along the forest floor.
The air was rich with the scent of pine, damp soil, and fresh wildflowers. Birds called from the branches, their songs weaving with the gentle rustle of leaves stirred by a passing breeze. A cobbled path of worn, smooth stones curled toward the cabin door, flanked by tufts of tall grass and curious blossoms peeking between ancient roots.
On the porch, an old bench sat beneath the eaves—silent, weathered, waiting. Maybe for a traveler. Maybe for someone who would never return.
A lone fox crept from the underbrush, its orange fur kissed by golden sunlight. It padded softly to the edge of the path, ears twitching, nose raised as if to sniff the memory of someone long gone.
This was just a ordinary home for someone.
Maybe, this was a sanctuary for some other.
A secret the forest had chosen to keep from everyone else.
A fragment of peace, untouched by the world's cruelty.
A home that came out of some one child wood dream, a home that was just built with just hope for a better future.
And for anyone lucky enough to find it... it offered a promise, that here, they could rest. Heal. Begin again.
Inside the cabin, sunlight streamed in thin golden beams through the window, illuminating the dark room, brushing gently against the face of a boy.
He lay curled beneath a soft blanket, chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of peaceful sleep. His hair was tousled, a few strands catching the light. His expression was calm, untouched by fear or pain.
He looked... safe.
But then—BOOM.
A thunderous explosion cracked the morning stillness like glass.
The sound rolled through the forest like a wave, shaking the treetops and scattering the birds in a flurry of wings. The Fox bolted, vanishing into the underbrush. Even the birds that dancing around darted away, vanishing like a wisp of flame into the trees.
Inside the house, the boy stirred.
Eyes snapped open.
Sleep faded instantly from his gaze, replaced by a flicker of awareness—a habit born of surviving in a world where loud sounds meant danger.
He sat up, heart pounding, breath catching in his throat.
The peaceful morning was gone.
And somewhere beyond the forest, the war reminded everyone... it had not yet ended.
It remained him that it's like war will not exist if he doesn't see it.