The sun was shining in the blue sky, few clouds were sailing eastward, a few seagulls were flying toward the bay. I felt happy.  The war was over, I lived in a nice place, arranged by the Danish Red Cross, cared by two loving people. I had a room all by myself, a book-case for my books; I will draw a metaphor for describing my bed, the blanket was like a white cloud, the pillow like a big snowball, I felt content, no air attacks, no cries. Will this last? Is this a dream?  It was so wonderful to sit on a chair that was not broken, to eat warm dinner, walk in the garden, pick an apple off the tree. The flowers, the beautiful, fragrant flowers, swaying in the gentle autumn breeze. A tiny bird chirping in a tree. The Red Cross had even given me a dress and shoes. I felt like a real person, and my guardians liked me, really liked me. I felt good and safe, I only wished I could understand what the people were saying, I did not understand Danish, only their smile made me trust them. It was a turning point for me to start trusting people around me. My birthday would be in  two weeks, I was going to be given a birthday party! What a joyous time it will be, but I had neither my parents nor my brother anymore. Having moved from place to place, I had not had a chance to get any friends. The two elderly people, who took me in, I called auntie Anna and uncle Marius. They had a special place in my heart by now. The door bell rang, I rushed to open the door, there stood a small group of people I never had met before. Am I going to be taken away? I ran downstairs to my room and hid behind the door, tears were running down my face, I wept in silence. Had I been dreaming? The vivid colours of happiness had suddenly vanished. Deep in my inner self  the palette had suddenly changed dark, I felt like having been captured by rancor, trapped in the odious abyss again. “What if it is still possible to get out of here?” The same thought echoed in my heart as it had on my seventh birthday, in Riga, capital of Latvia, when my parents and I were buried alive under a building that had collapsed under an air attack. I shrug of the memory, digging the way out of the rubble had etched deep scars in my heart. Now at this moment I decided not to dwell on the bad times; I started to count my blessings that I was not to die on my birthday under the collapsed building, I was reborn. That was then, now I felt like running away, far away so nobody can find me. At the moment of my despair, auntie Anna opened the door and reached out her hand, I trusted her and we both went upstairs to meet the guests. They had invited their friends to fill the guest list, I had nobody to invite. On the dinning room table there was a bouquet of flowers and a cake, the most beautiful cake with eight lit candles, it was so beautifully decorated, I read: “happy birthday”, LARA. It is all for me! The palette changed, the colours turned brilliant, I ran to the piano and played and played until the candles burned out. I got up and wanted to run to my auntie and uncle to thank them; for a moment, I felt no pain in my legs of the injuries of the war, and collapsed in front of my  beloved two people. I wept in gratitude for being alive.