Just like the night he left, raindrops fall down softly on the windows, leaving wet trails as they lose their fight against gravity.

He wanted to marry you, make you his wife as soon as he returned. Now, he’s right in front of you, lying in a wooden box, the flag adorning it a solemn tribute to his sacrifice,

Tears, long withheld, at last cascade down your cheeks, their chill mingling with the tremor that courses through your very being. Oh, how desperately you yearn to gaze into his eyes once more, to convey in a single glance the depth of your heartache and say the single word yes.

“Don’t cry, love.” his voice whispers, a phantom echo of solace in the hollow chambers of your grief-stricken soul.