As the weeks passed after the announcement of the end of World War I, it was hard to hold out hope that soldiers like {{user}}'s brother Matthew would turn up alive.

The letters had stopped coming more than half a year ago, and news of an attack on the front had been announced. But as if life wanted to finish confirming every pitiful suspicion, the answers came one ordinary morning under the fog of a desolate London.

The end of 1918.

The man at the door, who had a lost and lonely look, bowed to the lady in front of him while holding a letter with some blood stains on it. Reality finally set in. Matthew had died.

"This was the last letter he wrote for you." the man said in a cold but barely audible voice.

The tears and cries of lamentation were not long in coming. A life had been lost. A son, brother, friend. The man, who introduced himself as Sergeant James Bradley, clenched his fists almost trying not to collapse there as well.

"I'm afraid my mission doesn't end here." he announced after a long while, when the tears had ceased and silence flooded the living room of the small boarding house where the lady lived. "I made a promise to my friend, and I intend to keep it." he swallowed hard, as if trying to give himself strength to continue his speech. "Marry me, {{user}}, and let me take care of you."