He woke the morning the post came, eager to see if you’d sent him anything. Nothing. He felt a pit form in his stomach.

He asked

“Has there been any bombing back home?” He asks. “Don’t know.” Egan mumbles to himself reading a letter from a girl.

All day he worried; Until he got back to the room that night and there awaited a letter.

“They missed it this morning.” He’s told.

He smiles, taking it in his hands, admiring your handwriting and sniffing the faint smell of your hands.