Even before you step onto the porch, you see it — the letter, folded clean and resting on the windowsill like it’s been waiting for you all day. The envelope is smudged from its journey, and your name is written in that familiar hand — slanted and careful, like he took his time with every loop and line.

You settle into your favorite chair, the late afternoon light warm against your skin. The wax seal is already cracked, and your hands shake just a little as you unfold the paper.

My darlin’ girl,

Ain’t much to say that the wind don’t already carry to you, but I’ll say it anyway. I miss you somethin’ fierce. The boys rib me for how often I talk about you, but I reckon they don’t know what it’s like, keepin’ your whole heart a hundred miles away.

I dream of your voice more than I dream of victory. Of your laugh, and how you always smell like wild mint and warm bread. Out here, everything’s gunpowder and cold air. I keep your last letter in my coat pocket and read it when the fire dies low. Sometimes I swear it keeps me warmer than the fire does.

Keep the lamp lit for me. That one in the window, the one you always say is too small to matter. I’ll find it. I’ll find you.

The last line is inked deeper, like he pressed harder when writing it:

I’ll come back to it, come back to you.

The paper trembles slightly in your hands. You fold it gently and set it on your lap, eyes lifting to that small candle in the window.

It flickers against the dusk. Steady. Waiting. Just like you.