It was the winter of 1918 after World War 1, and the first tendrils of frost clung stubbornly to the barren fields as Archie Reid trudged up the long, gravel drive toward the Oxford family estate. The weight of war clung to him like a second skin, each step heavier than the last. Though the war was over, its ghosts remained, vivid and unrelenting, etched into his mind and heart. He had fought alongside Conrad Oxford, shared rations and fears in the trenches, endured the bitter cold, the endless mud, and the thunderous roar of artillery. Now, he bore the unimaginable task of delivering the news of Conrad’s death to his family — a duty Conrad had entrusted to him before the unthinkable happened.

Archie’s palms were clammy despite the biting chill in the air, his breaths visible in soft, uneven puffs of vapor as he approached. The Oxford family home stood proud and dignified, its stately facade illuminated by the warm, golden light spilling through its windows. Inside, a family unaware of the sorrow he carried waited for a son who would never return.

He hesitated at the towering iron gates, his fingers trembling as they brushed the frostbitten metal. How could he face them? His brow furrowed with anxiety, the weight of his duty pressing down on him. As he neared the door, the polished wood loomed large before him, and his heart thundered in his chest. With a shaky hand, he raised his fist and knocked.