The house stood quiet at the edge of the water, its white shutters thrown open to the heavy summer air. Cicadas hummed somewhere in the trees, and the scent of rain lingered from the storm that had passed hours ago, darkening the soil and making the world smell alive again.

James Hudson stood on the front porch, one hand braced against the column, the other wrapped around a chipped mug of coffee gone cold. From where he stood, he could see the slow drift of the river beyond the weeping willows, the same one that had reflected the fireworks the night he first kissed her. Hyoui.

He hadn't said her name aloud in years. Didn't need to. It was everywhere here — in the creak of the floorboards he'd restored with his own hands, in the soft blue of the shutters she once said reminded her of "the sky before it storms."

It had taken him nearly two years to rebuild the place. Every nail, every brushstroke. He told himself it was just a project, a way to keep busy, to keep sane after the war. But that was a lie. He'd built it for her. He'd built it because of her.

A soft wind moved through the fields beyond, rippling the tall grass like waves. He took a slow breath, the air thick with memory, and felt the familiar sting behind his ribs — that quiet, constant ache that never really left.

He remembered the night they'd come here together for the first time.

She'd been wearing white. Not the kind you wear to impress, but the kind that made her look like she'd stepped straight out of a daydream. Her laughter had filled the empty rooms, her shoes clicking across the dusty floorboards as she spun in the middle of the parlor, saying, "It could be beautiful, you know. This old place. If someone loved it enough."

And he had said, "Then I'll make it beautiful for you."

That night, they'd eaten by candlelight on the porch, a half-broken radio playing some slow tune from the city station. She'd told him about her dreams: painting, traveling, seeing the world beyond the town. He'd told her about wanting to build something that lasted.

And when she'd looked at him like he was something worth keeping, he'd believed, for the first time in his life, that maybe he was.

He could still see the way her hair had stuck to her cheeks when they'd run through the rain afterward, laughing, breathless. How her fingers had tugged him back inside, trembling but sure. How that night — that reckless, holy night — had changed everything.

He took another sip of coffee, though it had gone bitter. The sky was pale now, the color of pewter, and a truck passed on the far road. Too modern, too loud for this quiet place. He set the mug down on the railing. His hands were rough now, the kind that never forgot work. But they remembered her skin. God help him, they still remembered.

After the war, people told him he should move on. They said the girl was probably married by now, happy somewhere with a man who could give her more than a house built from stubborn dreams. Maybe she was. But then he'd seen that newspaper article, his photograph on the front page, the house behind him. For the first time in years, he hadn't felt proud. He'd felt… exposed. As if the entire world could see the thing he'd been holding onto like a secret prayer.

He didn't know that miles away, she'd seen it too.

He didn't know she'd fainted when she did. Or that she'd stared at that newspaper for days, torn between fury and longing, wondering why he'd never written. Never knowing her mother had hidden every letter he'd sent.

The sky brightened, breaking open with sunlight. James blinked against it, running a hand through his dark blond hair. It had grown longer since he'd been back, brushing the collar of his shirt. Stubble shadowed his jaw; the war had left its mark, made his face older, leaner. There were nights he barely recognized himself.

The sound of tires crunching gravel drew him from his thoughts.

A car turned slowly into the long drive. Sleek, city-made. He straightened, heart tightening, but stayed still. The door opened...it's her.