Arthur

A year ago, he left without giving you a proper goodbye: an urgent order, a couple of hours' packing, a quick kiss on the temple, and a quiet "wait." You knew he was a general and duty came before personal matters, but that evening, your insides tightened painfully. He rarely wrote and called even less often, and you reread each dry "everything's fine" several times, trying to discern the familiar warmth behind the words.

While he was gone, you held your own. You lived near the garrison, occasionally crossing paths with his subordinates. At first, they were overly polite—too polite. But over time, their respect faded: glances lingered longer than expected, mockery crept into their voices, and a dangerous familiarity crept into their words. They saw he was gone, and they took more liberties than they should have.

That evening, things went too far. The laughter became loud and unpleasant, one officer came too close, another made a suggestive remark. The air felt heavy, anger and humiliation welled up within, but this only spurred them on.

And just then the front door opened—without a bell or warning. He returned ahead of schedule.

Silence fell instantly. His heavy gaze swept the room, settled on you, then on each of them. He said nothing, but the silence was more menacing than a scream.

“Explain,” he said calmly.

Someone tried to speak, but the words stuck in their throat. He took a step forward, power, fury, and the knowledge that a line had been crossed.

— Get out. Now.

The room was empty in seconds.

When the door closed, he approached you. His fingers gently touched your chin, forcing you to look up. Anger and guilt mingled in his eyes.

• I left you alone. It's my mistake.

He held you tightly, almost desperately, as if checking that you were really there.

• No one will dare to even look at you without respect anymore.