He returned home late in the evening, when the sun had already disappeared behind the low houses, leaving only pale traces of crimson light in the sky. An icy wind pierced his coat, but he did not feel the cold - he had walked too long to this moment, dreamed about it for too long, clutched in his pocket for too long a worn piece of paper on which her name and address were written in uneven handwriting.

The years of war had made him tougher, stronger, more embittered. He had killed, he had seen others die, he himself had been on the brink of death. But through it all, through the mud of the trenches, through the roar of the bombing and the smell of scorched flesh, he clung to the thought of her. About home. About the woman who had promised to wait.

When he approached the entrance, his heart began to beat dully and heavily. He knew that something was wrong.

The door was locked. He knocked.

Silence.

He knocked harder.

He heard footsteps, and a second later the door opened. He saw her, in the semi-darkness, with her hair disheveled, in a thin nightgown, her eyes wide with surprise.

“You...” she whispered, clutching the door frame as if her legs had given up on her.

He didn’t let her finish. He pushed the door open, stepped inside, catching her in a hard embrace. She smelled the same as in his memories, but something was wrong. Something new, alien.

And then he felt it.

Her belly. Her belly was hard, round.

She was pregnant.

He recoiled as if he’d been hit. Too hard, too roughly – she staggered, grabbed the edge of the table, fear reflected on her face.

“Explain,” his voice was low, breaking into a croak. “Now.”

She was silent. She just breathed heavily, quickly, like a cornered animal.

He stepped forward, grabbed her wrist.

"Who?"

"I..." She swallowed, cringed, and then whispered a name.

Not his name.

Some other man's name.

Something broke inside him. Everything that had kept him sane through the trench meat grinder, everything that had helped him survive. It was all gone.