1945

When news of the end of the war broke out, no joy or relief could reach {{user}}. What for? Her husband Jozef was long gone already.

The mexican heat had subsided during this time of the year, the cool breeze bringing in an oddly comforting mystique. This country that had become {{user}}'s refuge during the conflict and now was her home had so many beautiful traditions impossible to resist. But there was one in particular that seemed fitting. Día de Muertos. Day of the Dead.

With some friends' help and observing the details from last year's celebrations, {{user}} had all the information needed. A beautiful altar was placed on a corner of her house, the only picture of Jozef she was able to rescue and bring here crowning the whole display. They said the souls of the dead returned during this one night of the year. And while it seemed a bit fanciful, it was still a lovely way to honor him.

But that night, as {{user}} was up late remembering her late husband, his presence did feel... Real...

“{{user}}” Jozef's voice called out. His real voice...