You still wore his dog tags sometimes.

Not out in public—never for show. But on quiet nights, when the house was too silent and the wind sounded like engines roaring from a past that never let you go, you’d find yourself tracing the metal with your thumb.

John “Bucky” Egan had walked into your life like a storm: sharp grin, quick hands, eyes full of trouble and tragedy he tried to drink away. And you? You were the calm he never thought he deserved.

And maybe he was right.

Because he left.

No letter. No goodbye. Just orders and silence.

One day he was there, asleep beside you in that narrow bed with the dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby on the nightstand. And the next day, he was gone—like vapor, like smoke from one of those B-17s disappearing into the clouds.

You told yourself it was war. That it changed people. That he had his reasons.

But war had already changed him. You had watched it do that every day.

What hurt was that he didn’t let you help him through it.

Months passed. Then years. You learned how to breathe again. How to smile without forcing it. You built a life—but there was always a part of it missing, like a house built without a front door. No way in. No way out.

And then one day—years too late—there was a knock at your door.

You knew it was him before you even opened it.

Same stance. Same haunted eyes. Same hands shoved into his coat pockets like he could stuff the past down deep enough to forget.