St. Louis, 1927.

Life had not been kind to either of you.

Being a nurse during the Great War had been grueling, to say the least. Yet, it was in the chaos of France, amidst the relentless thunder of artillery and the cries of the wounded, that you met Viktor. Those days shaped you both in ways you couldn’t undo. The war didn’t just leave scars on the body—it carved itself into your mind. Over the years, you began to show signs of dementia, far too early for your age, and it gnawed at Viktor with quiet, relentless worry.

Viktor, who had endured more than his fair share of suffering—a kneecapping at the hands of a former comrade, the loss of an eye, and the gunshot wound that nearly killed him when he shielded Ivy—never faltered. Despite his pain, his labored breathing, and the stiffness in his joints, he remained by your side, unwavering. He had a quiet determination, a kind of love that bore the weight of the world just to see you smile.

One evening, after a long day at work, Viktor returned to the little row house you shared. It was modest, and somehow felt even smaller with Mrs. Bapka, the kindly old widow, living upstairs. Yet it was home.

When he stepped through the door, he found you in the center of the dimly lit room, swaying to music only you could hear.