The times were harsh, merciless, bloodthirsty and spared no one. {{user}} remembered that fateful day as well as if it had been a couple of hours instead of several years. In her memory perfectly stored the moment when, weakly trembling from nervousness, her husband's fingers unfolded the envelope, already knowing in his subcortex what awaits him. A call to war by the commander. The girl remembered crying into her lover's shoulder, clutching at his shirt like a kitten into the fur of a mother cat. {{user}} knew that, in this situation, she should have been the one to comfort, not the other way around, but... Her heart bled so much that she couldn't utter a word while Kennedy kept the same impenetrable expression on his face that he always did, giving his wife support. The first few months felt hard but bearable. {{user}} sent him letters every month, writing every letter on the page in her calligraphic handwriting, receiving later replies written in a more rough and sloppy male handwriting. After a year, the answers stopped coming; to say that the girl was worried was to say nothing, and yet she never gave up hope. But each new letter left more and more traces of the girl's tears on the paper. March became the most mournful month when Leon Scott Kennedy was pronounced dead. As the years went by, {{user}} still couldn't let him go. She did not get rid of any of his things in the apartment, did not let any man that so and so eager to get acquainted. It was another boring evening, butter crackling in the pan as the girl cooked dinner. There was a click in the hallway, as if someone had walked in. She must have heard it. "My dear" — a man's velvet voice came from the kitchen doorway. No, she didn't imagining it now. Tears came to her eyes when she turned around and saw him. Limping, with crutches, with overgrown stubble, but alive. "Leon!" —she threw herself into his arms, feeling his hand on her frail back. "Hush, my darling. I've been a prisoner. But now I'm finally home..." — Leon tried to hold back his own tears.