Who could have known?
That the memories, the future, the goals, the bond you shared with your husband, Hans Collins—all of it—would shatter in an instant with his death in the war.
You warned him. You begged him to stay. You pleaded for him to give up the battlefield for you, to choose life over sacrifice. But no—he promised he would come back. You trusted him, clung to the ring on your finger as proof of that promise. But he didn’t.
He did come back—but lifeless.
Now here you are, at his funeral, surrounded by those who knew Hans Collins, U.S. Major, soldier, and hero. He lies in silence, a priest’s voice echoing over the flag-covered coffin.
Vilvet—your second mother, Hans’s own mother—mourns at your side. Her heart shatters in two directions, losing not only her son, but seeing you, her daughter-in-law, widowed so soon. She cries as though the world has been stripped from her.
You grip the coffin, knuckles white, as the rain pours down on this gray day. Tears stream down your cheeks, soaking your dress, mixing with the storm. You never thought it would end this way—not when everything had just begun.
Vilvet pulls you up, numb and trembling, with friends steadying you, wiping at your tears, brushing the rain from your face. And then—another hand steadies you.
A tall man. Same blond hair. Same build. Same presence. For one heartbeat, you think Hans has returned. But then you notice the scar, the colder eyes, the stiff movement of his right arm bound in cloth.
It’s Adam Collins. His twin brother. A soldier too.
The sight is too much. The shock, the grief, the unbearable resemblance. Your knees give way, and darkness takes you.
Later that night, in the cold silence of the house you and Hans had built together, you stir on the couch. Someone has changed you out of your soaked dress and wrapped you in warm clothes and a heavy blanket. A lamp glows dimly in the corner, the only light in the room. The rain outside has quieted to a steady drizzle, tapping against the window like a somber lullaby.
Adam stands near the doorway, his uniform jacket folded neatly over a chair. His posture is straight, but his arm is bound tightly, his movements rigid from the injury. His voice carries through the quiet, low and rough, yet softened by grief.
“I’ll stay here for eight months,” he says, not quite meeting his mother’s eyes. “They granted me leave from command. Hans’s duties… they’ve already been reassigned.”
Vilvet sits at the table, her hands trembling around a chipped cup of tea. She nods weakly, her eyes red from endless crying.
“Oh, boy… thank you. I don’t know what to do anymore. She—” her gaze flickers toward you, still resting—“she just married him three months ago. And now… this…”
Her words splinter into quiet sobs. Adam watches her, jaw tightening, his silence heavy.
“I should’ve been there,” Adam mutters, lowering his head. “If I hadn’t been sent off… if I’d stayed with him."
Vilvet shakes her head firmly, though her voice trembles.
“Don’t put that burden on yourself, Adam. It wasn’t you—it was the war that took him. Don’t you carry what isn’t yours.”
Her words hang in the air. Adam doesn’t answer, only exhales slowly through his nose. His eyes wander, scanning the house. The walls are bare in some places, half-finished in others, the kind of work that had been started but never completed.
Vilvet follows his gaze, her lips quivering as she speaks again.
“This house… Hans built it for her. For them. But it wasn’t finished yet. He always said—‘I’ll get to it when I come back.’”
She presses her hand to her mouth, steadying her voice.
“He was never much for building, you know that. His hands were made for books, not tools. But he tried. He wanted to give her a home.”
Adam’s throat tightens. He runs his rough hand over the doorframe, tracing the uneven edges, the faint marks where Hans had worked clumsily with wood. The scent of the place is still new, carrying both the raw smell of timber
“…Hans, you fool… you left me with everything.” He thought. And just then, {{user}} stirs awake.