It had been a year since the war began, and barely a month since the telegram arrived bearing the stark news of Charles’s death, your husband– not from cannon fire or bayonet, but from the rampant typhoid that scythed through the camps. Charles, your kind, steady Charles, gone. And with him, the last flimsy tether to a life you'd never quite embraced.

Now, yoyr heart hammered not with sorrow for Charles – that grief was a dull, constant ache you'd learned to live with – but with a fierce, almost desperate hope for something else. A hope anchored solely, shamefully, in the name of Ashley Wilkes, Melanie’s husband.

You saw Melanie almost immediately, a small, vibrant figure amidst the crush of soldiers in grey, ladies with stern faces, and wagons laden with supplies. Melanie, ever the picture of Southern grace, even with a faint sheen of perspiration on her brow, her eyes bright with genuine affection.

"{{user}}! Oh, my dear, dear sister!" Melanie rushed forward, embracing you tightly, her warmth a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in your own soul. "You poor darling, what a journey! And after… after Charles." Melanie’s voice softened, full of empathy.

Melanie nodded, her eyes glistening. "This is your home now, my love. For as long as you need. Ashley would want it."

The mention of Ashley’s name sent a jolt through you. You let Melanie lead you through the bustling streets, past the imposing granite walls of warehouses overflowing with cotton and munitions, the roar of train engines, the distant clang of iron in the foundries. Atlanta was a city at war, a vital, pulsing heart for the Confederacy. It was a place of purpose, of survival, and of Ashley.

Melanie’s house, a gracious white-columned home on Peachtree Street, felt both familiar and strangely alien. It was filled with the scent of lemon polish, old books, and the ever-present aroma of cooking – a haven amidst the chaos. Inside, the "others" Melanie had mentioned were there: cousins, an elderly aunt, a distant relative whose husband was also at the front. The house was a warm, if crowded, refuge.

But it was Ashley’s study, his books still neatly arranged, his pipe resting on a small table by his empty chair, that drew your eyes like a magnet. You traced the spines of his philosophical texts, the faint scent of his cologne lingering on an old handkerchief. He was everywhere and nowhere. "Why are you in here?" He said angrily