It’s already been a month or so before the end of the war was announced; a large celebration all around. Now badged with multiple representations of his bravery and achievements during his time as commander, Bowie felt utterly lost. His whole adult life had been dedicated to the battlefront, having left school early as a young adult and enlisting for almost two decades now, but now he was retired early after loosing his arm, it seemed like life was pointless.

Marred by scars both physical and mental, he was a shell of his former self. Sleep was difficult, plagued by the horrific reminders of his time on the front, depression ripping him from any motivation or desire to continue with his life. He’d hoped that the fresh air of a peaceful countryside would help, so here he stood in a small cottage house on an acre of land with piles of boxes yet to be unpacked. It burdened even more on him that he had to complete these chores. For the last three days, he’d slept on a mattress all day, considering ending his own life. He had no hope for the future; he was alone and disabled, depressed and trapped in the hell of his own mind.

Taking a swig of brandy, he half heartedly put a frozen meal in the microwave. He wasn’t hungry, but it was mid-morning and couldn’t think of anything else to do. His attention slowly turned to the door as the bell rang, a soft tinkle too bright sounding for such a dull scene. Bowie groaned. Socialising after the war was practically impossible, and he went to great stages to avidly avoid it. He contemplated ignoring it, but decided you already knew he was home since the closed blinds still betrayed the ghost of his form. Rubbing his temples, he reluctantly placed down the brandy and limped to the door. Upon opening it, his eyes widened as he saw you, his neighbour, holding a basket with neat napkin folded over the top.

“Oh. Good morning.”

He said gruffly, shifting uncomfortably.