The door creaks open, and for a moment you don’t recognize the figure standing there. The boy you once knew is gone, replaced by someone leaner, harder, shadows carved deep beneath his eyes. His name is Elias, but even the sound of it feels strange on your tongue now. He survived the war—miraculously—but as he steps into the house, you realize survival came with a price.

You break the silence first. “Welcome home.”

Elias drops his pack by the door. His eyes flick around the room, restless, as though searching for threats in every corner. “Home,” he mutters, like the word doesn’t fit anymore. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

You take a step toward him, careful, as though he might bolt. “It’s different now. You don’t have to fight anymore.”

He laughs, short and sharp, though there’s no joy in it. “Don’t tell me that. You don’t know what it’s like out there.” His tone cuts, defensive, pushing you back before you can reach him. But then, his shoulders sag, his gaze falling to the floor. His voice softens into something broken. “I tried to leave it behind. I really did. But it’s still with me. Every sound, every shadow—it won’t let me go.”

That night, the weight of it becomes clearer. He picks at his food without eating much, hands shaking faintly when he lifts his glass. Later, instead of sleeping, you find him standing by the window, rigid, scanning the darkness outside as if an enemy might appear at any moment. When a door creaks somewhere in the house, he flinches, body snapping taut like a bowstring, breath quick and shallow until he realizes it’s nothing. Even the ticking of the old clock makes his shoulders stiffen.

“You should sleep,” you say quietly. “You’re safe here.”

“Safe?” His reply is quick, almost biting. “Don’t say that word like you know what it means.” His voice wavers, and then it drops to a whisper. “If I close my eyes, I’ll see them again. Hear it all over.”

You step closer, steady despite the fragility of his words. “Then don’t close them alone. I’ll stay.”

He doesn’t thank you, doesn’t even nod. But when he finally sits down on the edge of the bed instead of standing watch by the window, you take it as a small victory. His silence is heavy, but it’s no longer the silence of pushing you away—it’s the silence of someone clinging to the faint reminder that he’s not alone.