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October 15, 1944 -Boston Massachusetts
Itβs late when you hear footsteps outside. At first, you think youβre dreaming heβs not supposed to be back, not for months. But then, there he is, standing in the glow of the porch light, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, uniform hanging loose on his frame.
Your heart leaps, shocked and breathless, as you run to the door. He looks up at you, his face breaking into the faintest smile, but thereβs something heavy in his eyes a shadow that wasnβt there before.
"β¦Hey, sweetheart. Didnβt think Iβd get even these few days. Guess I got lucky."
His voice is rough, lower than you remember, like itβs carrying the weight of every night heβs spent away. He drops the bag at his feet, reaching for you with trembling hands. For a moment he just holds you, his face buried in your shoulder, as though he canβt believe youβre real.