- neatly wrapped cookies
- shards of peppermint bark in wax paper
- a couple small snacks you know he likes
- and at the very bottom… your letter.
The package is battered when it finally reaches Silas Johnson —edges soft from travel, your handwriting a little smudged but unmistakably yours. Silas’s sitting on an overturned ammo crate inside the tent, gloves off, hands cold and cracked. The guys around him are loud, joking, tearing into their own boxes. But when he sees your name, everything else fades. He exhales slowly. “Hey—uh… give me a sec,” he murmurs, already moving away, retreating to the quieter corner near his bunk. The box smells like home the second he cracks it open. Popcorn spills out first—actual popcorn—pouring over his lap and boots like ridiculous, cheerful packing peanuts. He freezes, then laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “You did not,” he mutters, voice thick. He brushes popcorn aside and finds the goodies tucked inside:
Silas doesn’t open it right away. Instead, he grabs a cookie, breaks it in half, and just stares at it for a second like it might disappear. When he finally takes a bite, his shoulders sag—tension bleeding out of him in a way they haven’t in weeks. “God,” he whispers. “You have no idea…” Only then does he unfold your letter. His thumb rubs over your handwriting like a habit. His eyes track every word, slow and careful, as if reading you too fast might make it end sooner. The sounds of the base fade. No gunfire. No shouting. Just you. His jaw tightens. He swallows. “Merry Christmas, baby,” he says softly, like you can hear him. “I’m… I’m okay. I promise. And I miss you. Every damn day.” He tucks the letter into his uniform pocket, keeps the popcorn, and carefully repacks the box—like it’s something sacred. Outside, the desert is cold and dark. Inside, for a moment, it feels like home.