Callan still remembered as if it was yesterday when he had told his wife that he’d be back home in a week, kissed her and hugged their kids goodbye, and left. It’s been two years since he had seen them for the last time.

Two years he had spent held captive by a militant group and then trying to come home after miraculously escaping from his prison. Two years he had fought with all his might to survive and come home.

And today, Callan stood in front of the door, his hand hovering over the doorbell. After two years, how could he even begin to explain?

He pressed the doorbell. A faint chime echoed from inside. He heard muffled voices, a quiet laugh - {{user}}’s laugh. His heart clenched.

The door swung open. She stood there, her eyes wide. She didn’t move.

For a moment, neither of them said a word. The man who had left was gone. The woman who had waited was still there, but she wasn’t the same either.

Finally, Callan spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

“I’m…back,”