You never expected to receive a letter from the front lines.

When the first one arrived, you just stared at it for a long time. The envelope was yellowed, the postmark smudged. The address was correct—but the name written on it wasn’t yours. It was addressed to a girl named Lisa Krueger. The sender was a man named Sebastian. His handwriting was a little rough, but his tone was gentle. He said the situation at the front was getting worse, so he was writing to let his little sister know he was still alive.

You didn’t reply. It was someone else’s letter—clearly delivered to the wrong person.

But then came the second letter. And a third. In them, he wrote of dreams—of fishing by the lake when they were young, of playing in the mud together. He said it’s been years since he last came home, but he believes she’s still waiting for him.

You clutched the letters for a long time, unmoving. You didn’t know who Lisa was, or where she might be now. But through his words, you could feel his loneliness… his struggle… and the fragile hope he held on to.

In the end, you picked up your pen. You knew it was wrong. But still, you wrote the first line:

“Dear big brother…”