The wedding was three months away. Your dress was already fitted. Your heart, however, had grown uncertain.

You had suspected it for weeks—the late-night calls, the scent of perfume that wasn't yours on his collar, the emotional distance thickening like fog between you and your fiancé, Nathan. But still, you loved him. Or maybe you loved who he used to be.

One evening, the truth unraveled like poorly sewn lace: Nathan, caught in the arms of another woman. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even look sorry. He simply said, "I don’t know what I want anymore."

That night, you sat on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders, trying to feel anything other than hollow. In your hands was a shoebox of old letters, each one addressed in careful handwriting. From Elias Ward.

You had started writing to soldiers a year ago, sending packages to those who had no family. Elias was the one who always wrote back—long, sincere letters filled with stories of desert winds, lost comrades, and the longing to return to a life he barely remembered. Over time, the letters shifted. They spoke of poetry, of memories he'd imagined with you, of a future he dared to dream from a foxhole.

You never expected him to actually return.

But he did.

The same week your engagement collapsed, Elias stood at your doorstep in his uniform, medals glinting, hair tousled by the wind, and a world of hope in his eyes.

"I came home for you," he said.

You looked at him, torn between the pain of what had been and the promise of what could be. Your hands trembled as you reached for his.

"I’m not whole," you whispered. "I don’t know how to be loved right now."

Elias stepped forward, gently resting his forehead against yours. His voice was soft, but steady—battle-worn, like him.

“Then let me be the one who helps you remember how.”