text: The windows of the house flickered sadly. The wax flowed slowly down the red trunk of the candle. A soft whisper carved into the silence. The darkness had already absorbed almost all the dim light sources, but the mere glow of the stars shining incessantly. "You have to hurry, and remember, as soon as you get there to visit Abigail Clover." She will understand. Come on, hurry! You have to go- the old woman's teary gaze aimed at her black eyes.- We love you so much, Mary, my little Mary! They embraced. "God bless you, Mrs. Johnson, thank you for everything," she cried. - Come on, fast! They're right here!” An old man ran in excitedly. He was all skin-and-bone, his eyes swollen, purple wrinkles running down his face. His name was Mr. Johnson, and he has already suffered a lot for this decent Hungarian name, but how much more will he suffer more... The old door creaked open, and the dark figure melted into the sad night without a trace. Her silent footsteps may have been only heard by the angels sent by the old woman to take care of her. In the distance, the pounding of the enemy's horses was louder and louder. They rubbed the forest land heavily with their hooves, destroying everything that was life, freedom, and Home. They had stirred up a cloud of dust that left only torment behind; where they passed remained uninterruptedly sobbing in the wind. The fugitive walked all night. By the time the first rays of the sun blossomed on the distant horizon, Mary was already resting her aching legs at the base of a forest-edge bush. She unfolded her ragged haversack, in which there were merely three slices of dry bread, a red onion, and a little bacon. It seemed so poor, though she brought everything they had to eat. Her eyes filled with tears when she thought about how much this lovely couple had done for her. They helped and supported her in everything they could. Despite their age, they did their best. She stroked her lacy dress gently, in which she left home. The old woman even opened up the curtain to knit her clothes. She thought back to that cool November day as she wandered all alone in front of the store building. She was so young, barely six years old. Elegant people and ornately dressed women stormed past her. Sobbing, she was just shaking that her parents were dead, and she had nowhere to go. They were both taken away by the flu; they were poorer than the church’s mouse. They left nothing behind, just a little girl. Suddenly an old man approached her, carrying a full bag. He took potatoes for sale, but no one needed them at the market today. To his final desperation, he brought it into this little shop to see if the sellers here would buy it from him. However, they also refused. When he saw her, he didn’t have the heart to leave the hungry child, and although he and his wife lived sparingly alone, they adopted her without question. When they first met, she looked at Mrs. Johnson as her mother, who loved her with all her heart, as if she would have been her own, although she never had her own. She cherished her, loved her like a proper mother, a veritable guardian angel. As for Mr. Johnson, he would have put his hands on fire for the girl's health and happiness. Now here she is ... She left the people who would have sacrificed their lives for her. She ran away, there’s no way back. The path frowned contemptuously in front of her, as if accusing her of escaping, while the souls of so many people were finding their way to heaven because they were Hungarian. Now, after the glorious moments, they felt the painful hours, days, weeks of the 1848 revolution... They were surrounded, cruelly struck back. They ruthlessly incited an enormous elephant against the tiny bit Hungarian army. The fight was over; the loss was certain. If no miracle happens, the lives of thousands of Hungarians will be in danger. And no miracle happened ... The enemy treated the soldiers ruthlessly as well as the simple people of the nation. There is no longer as much wax in the world today as the number of candles burned during the weeping of the widows when their fallen loved ones were mourned. Mary went to sleep with an empty stomach, hoping she could still sleep without being attacked by devastating Habsburg soldiers. Although there was a constant rumble in the distance, they didn’t find her. She walked in fear, but eventually reached a Hungarian village. One stormy night, when she was ready to give up all hope, she found Abigail Clover, Mrs. Johson’s sister. She already knew 17-year-old Mary from older letters, who grew up on the outskirts of a city near Vienna. She was tired and skinny, her hair was broken, her lips were dry. Yet there was beauty in her careless appearance. She was more special than the other girls, her new family adored her. The years of peril were gone, however, the people never lost the mournful memory of the crushed revolution. When they thought about it, everyone's hearts tightened, but they talked less and less about it. It was the nation, mourning in black forever, that proclaimed this tragic event. Time passed, and the darkness was covered in even greater pain and agony. We’re writing 1920, the mournful year in which the Treaty of Trianon was sight. It wasn’t a treaty of peace, but shame... It was not tranquillity, but disgrace. It had everything for a recipe of shame, and the chef proved to be overwhelmingly zealous in making this multi-course meal. What was yesterday Hungary, today is Romania, Ukraine, Austria, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Serbia, Croatia. If the pains and losses of the First World War had not been just enough, they would have tried to deprive many innocent people just because they were Hungarians. However, they had forgotten one thing: whoever is born with Hungarian blood throbbing in his veins will also die as a Hungarian. Mary Johnson celebrated her 71st birthday in this famous year. Her little granddaughter revolved around her. This girl loved her grandmother so much, she would have done anything for her. At one time, however, she noticed the woman’s incurable grief. She heard her talking of a strange house where angels lived, and immeasurable wealth covered everything. At the age of 13 she managed to find out the exact address. She made a serious determination: she would visit that house. This decision grew stronger and stronger in her heart until a few years later she really did. However, all her ideas were contradicted by the sight that unfolded before her. A dilapidated, weedy house rose on the stony ground. The roof was ruined, the wall was perforated. After the revolution, it may have provided a refuge for raiding troops, but it was doubtful that anyone would have lived in it for a long time. Nora approached it with uncertain steps. The rusty doorknob left a dirty mark on her snow-white hands. The view inside was breathtaking. The windows of the house flickered sadly. The wax flowed slowly down the red trunk of the candle. The darkness had already absorbed almost all the dim light sources, but the mere glow of the stars shining incessantly. The 17-year-old girl sobbed painfully on the old floor. Her grandmother’s stories gained life in front of her eyes suffused with tears. She could almost feel the presence of the murdered couple's returning soul. The old door creaked open, and the dark figure melted into the sad night without a trace. Her silent footsteps may have been only heard by the angels sent by the old woman to take care of her...