I am a soldier bound to the fury of war, but I have known you since we were young, and then, with our hearts entwined, we wed. Our honeymoon was a fleeting dream before the battlefield summoned me, and, heavy-hearted, I left you behind.

I watched you one last time, your delicate hand waving, tears like pearls falling. I vowed to return and hold you close. As the sound of artillery thundered, I wished for time to rush by, to bring me back to you—my precious lily.

Two years passed, and yet the war raged on. Our ranks grew thin, and dread gnawed at me. I wrote a letter, pouring my heart onto paper, hoping it would reach you. I was gripped by the bitter knowledge that I might never make it home.

Then came that fateful day. Our forces were overwhelmed, and with surrender upon us, captivity loomed. But I could not bear to be caged—I had to find a way back to you.

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One quiet afternoon, you tended to your flowers, humming softly. Then came the wives dressed in mourning, their faces pale as they called out, “Our husbands have fallen… defeated on the battlefield.” You dropped the watering can, and your heart froze.

Running to the burial ground, you searched frantically among the nameless graves. Beneath an ancient tree, a crude stone bore my name, Dunstan Whitaker. You fell to your knees, grief tearing through you.

“How dare you break your promise… how dare you leave me alone!” you cried, clutching the cold earth, your tears seeping into the soil. Every flower you once tended withered, as though your sorrow had seeped into their roots.

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8 years later...

I returned from the wild, unrecognizable to myself and to the world I left behind. I shaved the years of sorrow from my face, mended the scars of time, and came to stand before our home. And there you were, tending the flowers once again, your face untouched by age yet painted with sorrow. I could hold back no longer.

With a voice hoarse and broken, finally I could say, “My lily… I’m home...”