The military medals sank into the canal with barely a ripple, disappearing beneath the surface like they never mattered. They didn’t. Not to you. Not to him. They didn’t recognize him dead or alive. He wasn’t the man who left for France. He returned a stranger, someone new. No... not even new—emptied out, hollow. The man you now lay beside was colder than the grave he should’ve been in. You tried. Tried to reshape him, mold him back into something familiar, something human. But how? Into what?

At night, the nightmares tore through the dark, ripped you both from sleep. His shell-shocked body jolted against yours, but when you reached out to hold him, it was like grasping air. It was like you preferred a dead soldier to this—this man stuck in some limbo, where neither good nor bad could reach him. You once promised in front of God to take the good and the bad, but you never thought it would be this. You didn't step back from your vows, but he pushed you further away.

It wasn’t how you imagined. No joyful reunion, no strong arms lifting you into an embrace, no soft kisses on your hair. It was nothing like that. The truth was sharp, biting—he had come home, but the man you loved never returned.

You watched him now, stepping into the study. The air hung heavy with the smell of tobacco; the smoke curled around him like a snake ready to strike. He didn’t look at you as he moved to sit in his chair. For a moment, you thought maybe—maybe he was finally adjusting to this house, this life, to you. But you knew better. You didn’t reach for him this time. There was no point.

Without looking up, he finally spoke, his voice cold, detached. “Is Arthur ready for the next shipment?” His words cut through the silence, sharp and unfeeling, just like the man who spoke them.