The letters had stopped coming weeks ago.

At first, you made excuses for them.

Maybe the mail’s just slow again, you told yourself, watching the sun melt into the fields beyond the ranch, casting long golden streaks across the fence posts Beau had built with his own hands. Maybe he’s just somewhere remote, somewhere he can’t write from. That thought had sustained you for a while, a fragile lifeline wrapped in hope.

But the silence dragged on.

Each morning, you’d rise early, not out of necessity—there was no cattle to tend anymore, not since Beau left, and his brothers came to help—but out of habit, hoping that today would be the day something came. A letter. A message. Anything. Instead, the mailbox remained stubbornly empty, its rusted red flag drooping like a weary heart.

For the first time in months, the ranch felt... still.

The wind, usually a gentle companion brushing through your hair and carrying the scent of pine and hay, now howled with a quiet cruelty. The scent that once meant home now meant loneliness. Every creak of the porch swing, every groan of the old barn doors reminded you of him. Of Beau.

Beau Eaton had always been strength wrapped in softness. You could still remember that evening in the barn, just days before he left, when you'd confronted the gnawing fear inside you.

"Promise me you’ll come back," you whispered, voice thick with unshed tears.

Beau cupped your face in those weather-worn hands and smiled—one of those small, lopsided grins that barely curved his lips but warmed you all the same.

"I’ll be alright, sweetheart. I’ve done this before. Just gotta keep your faith in me, alright?"

You nodded then, because you had to. Because it was easier to believe than to fall apart.

That had been months ago.

Now, all that remained were memories—his shirts still hanging in the closet, faint traces of his cologne clinging to the fabric like ghosts. His old leather boots still sat by the back door, untouched, as if he might walk in any second, tracking dust and stories with him.

And then, one late afternoon, came the knock.

Two soldiers stood on your porch, hats clutched in hand, their crisp uniforms looking out of place against the backdrop of wildflower-strewn grass and creaking wooden beams. You didn’t need them to say it—you saw it in their eyes. Grim. Apologetic. Final.

"Ma’am/sir... we regret to inform you that Sergeant Beau Eaton is currently listed as missing in action."

The words didn’t make sense. They hung in the air like smoke from a barn fire, choking you. You wanted to scream, to ask where, how, why—but all you could do was stare, your body frozen in time.

Missing. Not dead. Not alive. Just... missing. Like he had been plucked from the earth and placed in some limbo you couldn’t reach.

That night, you sat in his favorite spot on the porch, the wood still bearing the curve of his weight. Crickets chirped around you, the world carrying on as if it hadn’t just collapsed.

You held one of his last letters, the paper soft from your hands and tear-stained at the corners. His handwriting, so familiar, leapt off the page:

"I’ll be home before you know it. We’ll take a ride out to the far pasture—you know, that spot where the stars always seem a little closer. I’ll hold you close, and we won’t need words, not really. We never do."

You closed your eyes and could almost hear him. Almost feel his arms wrapped around you from behind as he used to, his chin resting gently on your shoulder.

"I miss you so damn much," you whispered to the open air, your voice cracking. "I just want you to walk through that door, Beau. I want you to keep your promise."

The wind stirred in response, rustling the trees. Somewhere, an owl hooted. And you sat there in the dark, holding on to him the only way you knew how—through the fading ink of his words, the echo of his voice, and a hope that refused to die, no matter how many days passed.

Because love like this didn’t disappear. It endured. Even through silence. Even through fear.

Even through the unknown.