This seemed a fitting place to die. A place where she had once known every field and tree, every valley, where the rocks had names, where meeting places were described in clandestine languages adults could never understand. A place of gushing mountain streams shining like burnished steel in the summer sun. This was where she'd felt safe. Now even this place felt poisoned, ruined, all beauty and purity choked to death.
- From White Rose, Black Forest by Eoin Dempsey