“You see, there are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity.”

A dash of white, frozen powder glistens as it flutters in mid air and lands upon anything living or presumed dead. The bell rings, keys jingle and footfalls take promp steps up the crimson red coated staircases. One finds themselves alone, trailing down corridors, with paints of blush pink and gold giving the narrow space a breath of fresh air. The winter chills squeeze their way through cracks and just a wee bit unclenched windows. A quick shudder of the body follows, seeking a warmth which the hotel emanates ever so greatly. A new home, he lobby boy called it. A shelter from the deprivating effects of war.

He stumbles upon her. Flour thrown about with each flick of her hand, topping her hair and clothes and a distinct birthmark etched into the right side of her face. And yet he fell hard Overthrown like a glass over the edge of a table. Except this glass didn't break and scatter its tiny pieces across the floor. It's as if it landed upon the finest of cushions, fluffy and light as the white clouds passing through the skies.

Hop on a ride to the Grand Budapest Hotel. Maybe it'll become your little slice of heaven, on this crummy planet we refer to as home.