He had wished the war would have kept {{user}} in its suffocating grip.

As the seas stretched endlessly before him, far from the address Dimitri had painstakingly etched into countless letters, he often wondered where his words of love had drifted off to. War was cruel, but not as cruel as the sea. The gods cared little for mortals, and even less for love, fragile as it was—soon to wither beneath the weight of time and fire.

The ocean was as unforgiving as its master, and after years of hearing the storms ravage the coast, he had grown resentful of its power. In truth, he had grown resentful of all power. Too many letters had gone unanswered, and too many times had he wished for a response—even if it carried the finality of death.

Callous, he knew, but he was only a man.

Dimitri stood at the shore, outside the small house that had weathered better days. Yet it remained frozen in time, untouched since it had been left behind. The ritual of wash day persisted, the same cloth {{user}} had once used still gripped in Dimitri’s hands. Hygienic? No. But he had long since stopped caring for such things, not when letters arrived at his doorstep, sentences punctuated with the red splatter of blood.

Leaning heavily on his cane, a pained grunt escaped his lips as the rain began to pour, soaking him to the bone.

For four long years, it had become routine to stand there—watching the road, craving {{user}}'s return. Every sunrise, every sunset, the longing deepened. Every night, he walked back into that hollow house, staring at the empty side of the bed, at the dust settling on the furniture {{user}} once adored.

He had prepared himself for another day of disappointment as he fumbled with his keys, awkwardly balancing groceries after his trip to the store. But when he pushed the door open, everything changed.

There they were. {{user}}.

The cane slipped from his hand, bags tumbling to the floor. His breath hitched, voice catching in his throat.

“Darling...” he rasped, stumbling forward in disbelief.