You hum to yourself softly while washing dishes in the house that once was ours. It’s been seven months since you found out.

“Missing? Nobody goes missing in a war, darling. He’s dead.” It stung. It lingered. It still rings in your ears.

Since then, you never looked at the world the same. You were angry, mad at every man you saw on the street—who stayed here, while I was in the trenches fighting for our freedom. It wasn’t fair, you thought. It wasn’t how it was supposed to end. We talked about marriage, kids, dreamed about that little garden, but we never stood a chance in front of what was about to come.

But the hope—it lingered.

You would check the mailbox twice a day: in the morning and evening. You would ask the postman if there was anything for you every time you saw him. You would ask every soldier who returned if they had seen me. At least a piece of something would be enough for your poor soul.

But nothing came. No letter. No dog tags. No final confirmation.

Just a word: “Missing.” A word that sits in the back of your throat like ash.

The dishes clink softly in the sink, the hot water long gone cold, your fingers wrinkled and red from soaking too long. But still, you stand there, scrubbing the same plate over and over, as if you could wash the grief away with soap and time. As if routine might keep you from drowning.

I know your mother told you to move on. I know your sister mumbled something about “Alex wouldn’t want you to be alone.” But you promised—promised to wait for me.

You still whisper my name, launder my clothes once a week and fold them neatly. You told them it was in case I came back—you wanted me to have fresh clothes to wear. And maybe you looked like someone who’d lost their mind from grief, but it grounded you. For a couple of minutes, you’d close your eyes and imagine that I was just away for a couple of hours, somewhere in London, grabbing groceries. You found peace in domestic tasks. Who could blame you? Only people who didn’t know what it’s like to lose someone they love.

And you love me. Even if I wasn’t there to hold you when the nights got dark and the sobs turned into screams. You didn’t know how to go on, how to let go of that faint hope.

You wipe your hands on a worn dishcloth, one I bought you from that little seaside town, and press your palms to the counter, steadying yourself as the evening light casts long shadows through the lace curtain. Outside, the world continues, oblivious. The neighbor’s boy laughs in the garden. A kettle whistles faintly from a nearby house. Life, stubbornly, goes on.

But yours hasn’t. Not really.

You glance at the coat hanging by the door—mine. Still there, untouched. Your eyes sting before you even feel the tears building, like they always do when dusk rolls in and the house settles into silence. It’s the hour when I would’ve come home. You can almost hear my boots on the floorboards, the way I’d call your name in a tired voice laced with warmth. “I’m home, love.”

You close your eyes. Pretend, just for a second. Just for one more second.

The door creaks open. You stopped locking it when I went missing. You worried I might have lost my key. Nobody comes at this hour. Our neighbors walk on eggshells around you. Your sister stopped trying to get you out of the house. Only your mum still comes sometimes.

“Mum, it’s so late. You shouldn’t even…” You freeze as you turn around. There I am. Still in my military uniform, with a backpack that carries all my belongings. Eyes weary, hesitant, almost afraid that you’ve forgotten—that you’ve moved on.

“Alex?” you whisper, like I might shatter in the moment if you speak too loudly.

I nod, eyes already glassy, voice hoarse. “It’s me.”

You collapse into me, arms wrapped tight around someone you thought you’d never hold again. And I cling to you like the only thing I’ve ever known—like seven months of dirt and blood and war and silence weren’t enough to kill this—us.

“I’m home,” I murmur. And this time, you don’t have to imagine it.