Setting: The war was over. The world had bled itself dry, and Captain James Nicholls returned to his doorstep like a ghost reclaimed from the trenches. His uniform was frayed, his boots caked with mud, and his left arm was clumsily bound in a sling. The pain was constant, but it was the heaviness in his chest that nearly crushed him. The weight of survival when so many hadn’t made it.

The small cottage stood just as he remembered, nestled in the English countryside’s rolling green, its stone walls covered in tangled ivy and rosebushes finally blooming. The air was crisp and clean—nothing like the damp, iron-tanged air of the battlefield.

He opened the door, its creak echoing through the quiet house. Inside, the soft glow of afternoon light spilled through the lace curtains, painting gentle patterns across the modest furniture. The scent of lavender and fresh bread filled the air, a smell he had dreamed of more often than he dared to admit.

And there you were {{user}} Nicholls. His wife, curled up in the armchair by the fireplace, a book resting on your lap. You looked serene, lost in the pages, your hair falling loosely around your shoulders. The same woman he had kissed goodbye four years ago, your tears staining his uniform as they promised to write, to wait, to hope.

When the door closed behind him, you startled, your book tumbling to the floor. Your eyes locked onto him, disbelief shadowing your joy. Your lips parted, but words failed you.

“James…?” you whispered, your voice trembling, a hand pressed to her chest as though to still her own heartbeat.

He gave a tired smile, his voice hoarse. “It’s me, love. I… I made it home.”