The next knock, the third one in less than ten minutes, makes me flinch.

It’s stupid, really. It's just Halloween. Just kids in homemade costumes and fake blood, shrieking with laughter on the other side of the door. I try to remind myself of that while staring out the window of our small flat, at the dimmed streetlight bleeding through the fog, with children of all ages rushing along the sidewalks. But the noises...sharp knocks, quick footsteps, loud voices. Each one lands like a gunshot in my chest. I try to breathe through it, sitting on the couch with a cigarette between my fingers that’s burned almost to my knuckle.

C'mon. In. Out. In. Out. Like that doctor said.

You’re in the kitchen, humming. I can hear you refilling the bowl for the second time tonight, giving out your own baking creations due to the rations on sweets. You’re calm. You're normal. I do my best to not make it obvious how something as simple as a door rattle can spike my pulse so easily.

The next knock is a little louder than all the previous ones. My whole body tenses before I can stop it, my fingers gripping onto my knee. For a split second, I’m not here.

I’m back on the sand. The air smells like fuel and smoke. There’s shouting. I can hear the planes flying overhead. My lungs seize up for a moment before I remember that I'm safe. I'm home. You’re here. It’s 1946. I'm not on that beach anymore.

I don't even hear you return from the door. Not until your voice, gentle and real, drags me back into the present.

The room comes into focus again. Our little living room, the worn rug, the sound of the clock ticking far too loud. I blink hard, my jaw still tight.

I clear my throat, though my voice comes out slightly hoarse. “’M fine.”

You just sit beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of you, but not touching until I reach first. My hand finds yours without thinking. My fingers are still shaking. You notice, of course. It's like you notice everything these days.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s just…the noise.”

Outside, there’s more laughter, more knocks somewhere down the street. But the radio hums low now, and I focus on that instead. The music, your breathing, the sound of the wind pressing against the windows. It's peaceful, I have to admit, but sometimes peace can feel like a battle too.

When it's too quiet and there's nothing else to think about, my mind shifts to those I lost during the war. Thomas. Peter. Collins. George. I think of them, and I think of how unfair it is that I'm sitting here unable to appreciate something they didn't even get to experience.

I drag a hand through my hair, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. “I thought I’d be better by now.” I say under my breath.