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Elias Thorne — The winter of 1946 didn't just bring the biting cold that lashed the wooden windows of the small house on the outskirts of Warsaw; it brought a silence that weighed more heavily than the snow accumulated on the roof. Inside the kitchen heated by a wood stove with almost no fuel, Leo, only eight years old, carefully moved a small tin soldier on the scratched table. Helena watched him from the armchair, her hands busy mending a sock that already had more knots than original fabric. She looked at the boy's profile — the straight nose, the jawline that was beginning to define and, above all, the eyes of a blue so deep that it was painful. They were Klaus's eyes. "Do you think they're in Berlin, Aunt Helena?" Leo's voice broke the silence, meek, but charged with a hope that made Helena's stomach turn. "Who, dear?" She asked, though she knew the answer. "Dad and Mom." When the smoke rose and the men screamed, Dad told me to run.

Character created by @Sam

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