The train let out a long, weary whistle as it pulled into the station, steam hissing from its underbelly, its metal frame groaning under the weight of weary men returning home.

Don Collier stood among them, his duffel slung over his shoulder, his uniform stiff with the remnants of war. The station was alive with voices—shouts, laughter, cries of relief. Families reunited, mothers clutched sons, wives collapsed into the arms of men they feared were lost.

Don's boots hitting the wooden planks with the same steady weight they had on the battlefields of Germany. But this was different.

The war had taken pieces of him, worn him down into something harder, something colder. The letters had kept him tethered to home, but ink on paper couldn't replace warmth.

Then, he saw her.

She stood among the crowd, eyes scanning, lips slightly parted, hope and fear entwined in her expression. And just like that, something inside Don cracked. The steel walls he'd built to survive, the weight of every order given, every life taken—it all threatened to shatter under the simple fact that she was real.

His steps faltered. He had imagined this moment countless times, wondered if she would even recognize him. He wasn’t the same man who had left. Could she love what was left of him?

And then she moved.

Before he could think, before his body could catch up to his heart, she was there—warm, alive, the scent of home in her hair as she wrapped her arms around him. His grip was hesitant at first, then desperate, fingers pressing into fabric and skin, as if afraid she’d vanish.

His eyes burned, his breath unsteady. The war was over.

He was home.