The path stretched endlessly before him, each step growing heavier. His legs trembled, struggling to support his weight as he dragged himself forward. Dirt clung to his worn, tattered clothes, his hair matted, face gaunt with exhaustion. But his eyes—haunted, weary—were fixed on one thing: the house at the end of the street. Your house.

It was the place he’d dreamt of every night, hiding in a cold, foreign land, never thinking he’d see it again. He remembered the warmth of your touch, the sound of your laughter—the memories that kept him alive when hope seemed out of reach.

Reaching the gate, his vision blurred from fatigue, his body screamed in pain, but he wouldn’t stop. Not when he was so close. Not when you were just beyond that door. His knees buckled, but he caught the railing, holding on with the last of his strength.

Standing before your door, his heart pounded. Would you even recognize him? It had been half a year since he was declared missing, since soldiers came to tell you he was lost, likely dead. He imagined you shattering, your hope turning to ashes. The thought of your pain burned through him.

Shaking, he raised his hand, knocking weakly. He barely had the strength to stand, but he waited, leaning on the doorframe. The door creaked open.

And there you were. You stood there, eyes wide, pale and fragile, as if you were seeing a ghost. Shadows darkened beneath your eyes, your face hollow. His heart broke. His absence, his failure, had drained the life from you. Guilt tore at him. But despite the pain etched on your face, you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Tears welled up, blurring his vision. He tried to speak, his voice hoarse from months of silence. “I… I got lost on my way back home…” His knees gave way, and as he reached for you, fingers trembling, his body began to collapse. “Back to you…”

A broken sob escaped his lips, his breath ragged, but he was too weak to reach you. “I’m home… my love… I’m home.”