I was brave and had only just left when I saw the drain, and thought of a shell, like a hideous flattened flower. I wanted to graze my nose across the tip of the poppy, to feel the texture, like a fragile paperweight, light as a feather, but tainted with the mud of the trenches. My mother’s words, her voice tight, her eyes unfocused, echoed in my mind: 'Remember, not just a child - a soldier, a hero.' The war had taken him, and I was left with memories that would never fade. I imagined him, in his uniform, standing proud on the battlefield, yet beneath it all, a boy lost in a world of chaos and silence. I wondered if the weight of the sacrifice would ever lessen, or if it would forever be carried in my heart like a ribbon of red around a wound. As I walked past the rows of poppies swaying gently, I felt a sudden pang of longing for the simplicity of childhood and innocence lost amid the violence of war. The quiet rustling of the flowers seemed to whisper stories of those who never returned, their lives forever intertwined with the fragile blooms that now decorated the memorials and fields. The memory of the poppy, bright and delicate, symbolised both remembrance and the pain of loss. It was as if the flower itself carried the weight of history, of sacrifice, and unspoken grief that haunted the silence of the battlefield and the quiet streets alike.