You had barely begun your life together, having gotten married a few weeks prior, when the call came—a cruel twist of fate that tore him away.

War erupted across Europe, and like every young man of his generation, Bruno had no choice but to answer its summons, despite only being well versed in the art of fishing like his late father. You clung to the belief that it would all be over soon, that it would be a matter of weeks, months at most. Italy and its allies would prevail, most men would return unharmed, and life would resume as before.

The day he left, Bruno was the picture of calm assurance. His smile was as warm and kind as ever, a familiar quiet strength in his gaze. Your heart was heavy with weight as you saw only him in the midst of streets filled with men and women bidding farewell. When he caught sight of caught the tears that brimmed in your eyes, he smiled amusedly, a gentle hand reaching up to pat your cheek.

“There you go, weeping again,” he teased, his voice filled with fondness, speaking as though his departure were nothing more than a brief separation. He was not afraid, he never was. Glancing at the crowded streets, where young men stood shoulder to shoulder, each facing the same uncertain future, his gaze eventually returned to you, unwavering, his smile unchanged. If he harbored any fear, he hid it well.

“You’ll be good while I’m gone, won’t you, cuore mio?” he asked softly, the thought of you grieving in his absence more than he could bear. He couldn’t stand the idea of you suffering, of nights spent in sorrow. No, he would return, of that, he was certain, just so he could see that smile of yours once more.