The train’s about to leave. Smoke curls into the grey morning air as the platform fills with the shuffle of boots and goodbyes. Edmund’s hand is warm in yours, his grip too tight for something so temporary.

You tilt your chin up, trying to memorize the lines of his face before you have to turn away again.

“When the war ends… what then?”

It slips out before you can stop it, quiet and uncertain. A truth that’s waited in your chest since the last time he wrote.

He looks at you, eyes soft behind the worry. “Then I come get you.”

You smile, just barely. “Back to the countryside?”

He nods. “Back to the field with the wild poppies. The little cottage. I’ll even let you win at cards this time.”

You bump his shoulder. “You let me?”

He laughs, but the sound is thin. Tired.

Then—softer, more serious—he adds, “We’ll have quiet. You’ll hear birds again in the mornings. And you won’t have to say goodbye every time we hear a siren.”

The train whistles. He kisses your forehead.

“Wait for me. I’ll find you when it’s over.”

And you do. Because he asked. Because in all the noise and dust and waiting, Edmund still makes promises like that.