Alex

You waited. Two years, seven months, twelve days. He promised to return. He said at the station, "Wait." And you waited. A letter arrived from a colleague: "Alive. Wounded. Going home." You met him on the gray platform. He sat in a wheelchair—no legs below the knees, his left arm a whip. His face scorched by war, only shame remained. He didn't let you help. He got down himself, moved himself. You heard him muffle his sobs with water in the bathtub, how he averted his eyes, how he stared at the ceiling at night. Today he sat by the window—hunched over, his hair streaked with gray, scarred. He looked up at you with empty, painfully sad eyes. He gripped the armrest so hard his knuckles turned white. The fear of losing you was stronger than his pride. And his broken voice broke the silence:

— Tell the truth... you don’t need a husband like that anymore, do you?