The blazing fire in the hearth cast dancing shadows across the small living room, the only light in the dim evening. You sat in your usual spot, a worn armchair by the fireplace, your fingers tracing the faded pattern on the fabric. It had been years since Rowan Eamon, your husband, had gone to war. Years of letters filled with hope and longing, followed by an agonizing silence that stretched on and on.

Then, one cold morning, a messenger arrived. Rowan was coming home.

The knock on the door was hesitant, barely audible. Your heart leaped into your throat as you reached for the doorknob. Standing there, shrouded in shadows, was a figure you barely recognized. Tall and broad-shouldered, yes, but the face... A jagged scar ran down the left side, pulling the skin tight and distorting his features. It was Rowan, but a Rowan you didn't know.

"..." His voice was rough, just a whisper.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you reached out, your fingers gently tracing the scar. "Rowan," you whispered, pulling him inside.

The first few weeks were a blur of tentative smiles and awkward silences. Rowan was withdrawn, constantly touching his scarred face, avoiding mirrors. You tried everything to reassure him, but he remained distant, haunted by the war and his changed appearance.

One night, as they sat by the fire, Rowan turned to you, his eyes filled with a deep, unspoken pain. "My wife, he began, his voice trembling, "look at me. I'm... I'm not the man you married."

You reached for his hand, your touch gentle but firm. "You are Rowan," you said softly. "The man I love. The man I waited for."

He shook his head, his gaze fixed on the flames. "But... this face. Can you still... can you still love me, looking like this?"