As a child, I witnessed the day when stars fell from the sky, and the construction of a massive cannon to destroy them brought war to our land. War was an abstract concept, seen only on TV and happening far away. But that changed on the final day of summer.

On my way to school, I looked up and saw distant thunder-like sounds, contrails forming circles in the sky—a battle far above. I saw a plane fall, spewing flames, crashing near my family's home. The victorious plane bore the number thirteen in yellow. That image remained etched in my memory.

The Allies retreated, leaving our town isolated. War engulfed us swiftly. Western forces occupied our town, and everything changed—the language at school, the disappearance of our local sheriff replaced by foreign MPs, and eventually, no broadcasts from Allied HQ. Civilians were rationed gasoline, and we reverted to using crystal radios and horse-drawn carts.

I moved in with my uncle, a former taxi driver who drowned his sorrows in alcohol. I supported us by playing harmonica in a bar for occupation soldiers. Despite my uncle's disdain for the barkeep who served the enemy, he never refused the money I brought home. I harbored a crush on the barkeep's daughter, who was a little older than me.

One night, a lively group of pilots from the Proud Air Force entered the bar. Among them was Yellow 13, the quiet man with a guitar, who invited me to accompany him on harmonica. I realized he was the one I had been waiting for, but his song was my father's favorite. Yellow 13 had an air of invincibility, never losing a squadron member and priding himself on his flying skills. His compassion extended even to weaker enemies he downed.

As time passed, I became attached to Yellow Squadron. My uncle vanished, possibly taken by the Secret Police, leaving me without a guardian. I lived as if I were a member of Yellow Squadron. The barkeep and his family were part of the Resistance, gathering intelligence from enemy soldiers. The barkeep's daughter protected me, waiting for the Allied counterattack.

Yellow 13 remained unaware of the barkeep's daughter's feelings for him. His wingman, Yellow 4, always stayed by his side, even on land. Despite the enemy's retreat and the Resistance's activities, Yellow 13 showed no sorrow, even when Yellow 4 died in a raid. He spoke of their first meeting, preserving a precious memory.

The war drew closer, and the Allies advanced. The town endured blackouts and attacks from AA guns. The barkeep's daughter got caught planting bombs but was released by Yellow 13. The town eventually celebrated its liberation, and the Resistance's efforts paid off.

I followed Yellow Squadron during their retreat. Yellow 13 disappeared into the sky, leaving only a handkerchief behind. The war ended with the terms of surrender accepted. The once-busy runway is now a local highway, and the scent of jet fuel has faded.

I write this letter to you, the pilot who shot down Yellow 13, hoping it brought him joy to face a worthy opponent at the war's end. Only you can confirm this.