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For a year and two months you lived in anticipation. Every morning began with a quiet prayer over a cold kettle as it boiled. Every evening ended with a letter that probably never arrived. You memorized his last photograph, taken a week before their unit was thrown to the very edge, where the roar was part of the landscape. And then a telegram arrived: “Meet me. 17:00. Central.” Your heart leapt out of your chest and started pounding somewhere in your throat. You put on that same blue dress he always loved. You bought flowers. The whole way to the station, you kept repeating to yourself everything you'd say. How you'd hug him. How you'd laugh. How you'd cry with happiness. The train was dusty and tired. Equally tired people were exiting the carriage. And among them—him. Gerald. The same height, the same hair, the familiar slit of his lips. You rushed toward him, wrapped your arms around him, and pressed yourself against his chest, where life should have been beating. But all you felt was the stiff fabric of his coat and stillness. His hands slowly, almost mechanically, settled on your back.

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