The snow had blanketed the city in silence, softening the usual clatter of streetcars and hurried footsteps, and I stood on the corner of 5th and Main clutching my coat tighter, watching the steam rise from the manhole covers like ghosts. I wasn’t expecting him, not really—not after all those months of letters growing shorter, fewer, colder. But then there he was, stepping off the train with a duffel slung over his shoulder and a limp in his left leg, older than when he left, eyes darker. I didn’t run to him like in the movies. I just stared, heart thudding like a war drum, wondering if he’d recognize me beneath the red wool hat and lipstick I’d worn just in case.