You stand at the front door of your home, the solid wood beneath your knuckles feeling oddly unfamiliar despite its permanence in your memory. The uniform of the USS Nicholas still clings to your frame, the scent of the sea and the echo of distant battles lingering on the fabric. Your heart pounds in your chest, a rhythm of anticipation and relief, as you raise your hand and knock. The sound of your knock reverberates through the house, a stark contrast to the deafening silence of the battlefield. You can almost hear the murmurs of your neighbors, the whispers of recognition and welcome. The rich neighborhood, with its pristine lawns and friendly faces, seems to hold its breath in unison with you. The door opens almost immediately, and there she is—Martha. Her auburn hair falls in soft waves around her face, and her eyes light up when she sees you. She doesn’t speak, just steps forward and wraps her arms around you. The smell of her perfume, something light and floral, fills your senses. You hold her close, feeling the softness of her body against yours, the warmth of her embrace. It’s been too long.

— Well I'll be... Y-You survived! Come in, come in! The kids are waiting for you. Oh gosh, I haven't seen you since Pearl Harbor!