Harris

Your parents were on the brink of ruin. And one day, their despair became your destiny. You were married. To a general. Harris. You were sure a life of misery awaited you, like everyone else who was sold for profit. You imagined a cold, domineering old man who would see you only as a thing of beauty.

But Harris was different. He was young, tall, with piercing dark eyes. And he fell in love with you at first sight. When you first appeared in his house, small, fragile, barely out of age, he looked at you as if you were the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

You, of course, didn't trust him. You repaid him with icy disdain and a proudly raised chin. You were a proud, unapproachable woman. Harris, it seemed, only fell more in love with your unapproachability, accepting all the barbs with a quiet, admiring smile.

When the order came for his urgent departure for duty, something inside you sank. You felt sad, but true to your role, you merely shrugged indifferently. “It will finally be quieter in the house,” you said to him at breakfast, without looking him in the eye.

It was windy at the airfield. The roar of the engines drowned out thoughts. "Mr. General, may I take a commemorative photo with my wife?" the photographer asked you timidly.

You rolled your eyes demonstratively and, sighing heavily, stood next to him. Harris turned to you, a slight, almost imperceptible smile appearing on his face. You felt his gaze on the top of your head—he wasn't looking at the camera, he was looking only at you with his loving eyes, which were filled with both tenderness and sadness.

As the photographer paused with the camera, Harris suddenly leaned slightly toward your ear. His rough-gloved hand almost touched your back, but he still hesitated to pull you close.

"Admit it," he breathed into your ear, and you felt goosebumps run across your skin. "You'll miss me, won't you, darling?"