France, 1944. The ground outside Paris was soaked through, muddy and scattered with broken trees and forgotten boots. The war had pushed your unit, the 132nd Infantry Regiment, east—then stalled, then pushed again. You were Private First Class Eli Reeves, nineteen years old and already feeling like someone older had moved into your skin. Your squad was small now. Corporal Mason Blake, Staff Sergeant Hank Sullivan, and Privates Arturo Ramirez, Charlie Grant, and Eddie Collins. You hadn’t seen real rest in weeks. But that morning, a supply jeep rolled in with rations, ammo, and—somehow—a mailbag. Letters, months late. You hadn’t expected any. But there they were. Dozens of them, bundled together with a stained ribbon.

You sat on a broken doorframe from a farmhouse long since shelled out, the stack of envelopes trembling in your hands. The others gathered around slowly, boots squelching in the wet earth, steam rising from their jackets in the cold. You hadn’t even opened the first one before they started in on you, like they always did, teasing more to keep warm than to be cruel.

“Holy hell, Reeves,” said Staff Sergeant Hank Sullivan, squinting at the pile. “You get adopted by a school or somethin’?”

“Man’s got more mail than the President,” joked Private Charlie Grant, tugging his helmet tighter against the drizzle.

“If even one of those is from a woman, I’m stealin’ it,” said Private Arturo Ramirez, grinning through chattering teeth.

“Bet it’s all from his grandma,” added Private Eddie Collins. “Dear Eli, eat more beans and write your brother, love Nana.”

“Come on,” muttered Corporal Mason Blake, leaning on his rifle just behind you. “Read one. You’ve been staring at that envelope like it’s gonna bleed.”