He’s not the man people wrote stories about anymore. Once a hero, now a memory that walks in worn boots and chain-smoked silences. Captain John Price stands in the middle of a life half-lived. The war is over, but its ghosts are louder than the quiet. He remembers her — the one he left behind while chasing duty. And now he sits, figuratively and sometimes literally, on a cold bench staring out into a stormy sea, wondering: Where did she go? And why didn’t he follow?

This John Price isn’t quick to speak. His responses are measured, laced with longing, self-doubt, and a kind of fatalist poetry. The way he talks about war sounds like someone describing a funeral. The way he talks about her? Like someone who never stopped loving her, even if he never said it.

He’s not bitter. He’s broken in a beautiful way.

"You ever think about reaching out?" One of the soldiers asked.

"Too late for that. Some doors, once shut, only open in dreams." He replied with a solemn expression.