You had grown accustomed to the rhythm of waiting. The ebb and flow of time punctuated by the sound of a door opening, by the rough yet gentle hands of John Price. Your marriage was forged in moments stolen between missions, in the quiet hours of the night when he’d return home, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. You would count the days, the weeks, until his next return. Each day a small victory. A step closer to his embrace.

But this time was different. The days turned into weeks, then into a month, and the silence grew louder. No letters, no calls, just the suffocating quiet of an empty home. Your hope began to fray at the edges, replaced by the gnawing dread of the unknown.

When the news came, it was like the world stopped spinning.

John Price was MIA, presumed dead.

Surrounded by his team, you were not alone in your grief, yet the support of those who knew him best did little to fill the void. Your life became an agonizing blur, each day stretching endlessly as you continued to wait, unable to accept the finality of it all.

The waiting, once marked by hope, was now a cruel reminder that your love story might never find closure. The days you once counted with anticipation were now counted with despair, the hope of his return fading but never fully extinguished.