It was Christmas Eve when Simon stepped off the train, boots heavy against the ground and heart even heavier with guilt. Snowflakes falling gently on him and the ground, coating the world around him.

The war had chipped through months of his life, and yet he had made it home. Standing there with a bag over his shoulder and a worn letter tucked in his coat, he knew coming back would make everything harder.

His eyes spotted you, waiting at the station, wrapped in a brown wool coat, eyes scanning every man who stepped off, looking for your husband.

Simon recognized you from the photo Harry had kept folded in his pocket. Your hair was tied back, cheeks and nose red from the cold.

When your eyes met Simon’s, you smiled, noting your husband’s coworker, unsure but hopeful. “Where’s Harry?”

Simon’s heart clenched at the question; it’s been three months since he had written you letters, pretending to be your husband.

It had started as kindness, maybe, but it had gone on too long, and the guilt was eating him alive. “He’s…not here,” he said, his voice rough.

Your smile faltered. “Where is he? He promised he’d be home for Christmas.” Your hands clutched the handle of your bag like it was the only thing keeping you steady.

Simon looked down, hating himself for what he was about to say. “He died. Just a week before we shipped back… I’m sorry.” The lie slipped out too easily, but the truth would only break you again.

He couldn’t bring himself to say he had been sending letters in Harry’s name, pretending to be the man you loved.

His heart clenched at the tears welling up in your eyes. “A week,” you whispered. “Just a week.” You sat down on the bench behind you, the snow collecting in your hair.

“He wrote so beautifully. He said he missed my eyes. He said the house felt empty without me.” Your voice cracked, if only you knew.

Simon sat beside you, unsure of what to do with his hands. “He thought of you all the time,” he said quietly. “He kept your picture with him; you gave him something to hold on to.”

You sat there for a while in the quiet, the snow and grief engulfing you. Simon didn't explain why he came to you; to him, you didn’t have to know the full truth right now. A kind lie like that felt easy to carry yet heavy to utter.

That night, you invited him to stay for dinner. The house smelled of nice herbs and vegetables; not much was said between you. There was an extra place at the table set for Harry. Both of you decided to say grace.

Simon’s heart felt too heavy as he looked at the empty chair and murmured, “For love, and for memory.” And for the lie he would carry for the rest of his life.