Charles

Your story with Karl began in a quiet pre-war town. He was always a man of honor and his word, someone who believed in an "ideal future." Karl adored your laughter and often repeated that he would do everything to remain a worthy man for you. When the war began, he was one of the first to be drafted. On the platform, to the roar of a steam locomotive, he embraced you one last time and promised that time had no power to change what was between you.

Three long years passed. Three years of living by a calendar that counted down the days from letter to letter. At first, the envelopes arrived smelling of gunpowder, but full of love. However, at the end of the second year, Karl fell silent. Your despair was interrupted by letters from his best friend—your friend's boyfriend. He wrote cheerfully: "Karl is fine, just swamped with orders, asked me to tell you he loves you." You clung to those lines, unaware that behind them lay a heavy truth that Karl had forbidden you to reveal.

The war ended in victory. Orchestras thundered in the square, and you saw your friend throw her arms around her returning hero. But Karl wasn't among the soldiers. His friend, averting his gaze, merely said curtly, "He'll come later. He needed time. Just wait for him at home."

The house stood frozen in the evening twilight. The anticipation that had lasted nearly three years seemed to thicken in the air. The sudden click of the door lock made your heart skip a beat. A man entered the hallway. From the way he walked, from the set of his shoulders, it was he, your Karl. But he was in no hurry to enter the lighted part of the room, standing frozen just at the threshold, where the shadows were thickest. “It’s me...” His voice became lower and cracked than you remembered. Karl kept his cap on, and the collar of his old uniform was pulled up so high, as if the winter cold was still raging outside. You took a step toward him, wanting to touch his face, but he jerked back, almost fearfully, holding out his hand.

“No need. Stay there,” he breathed out. In the dim light, you noticed the right side of his face looked different. It wasn't a fresh wound—the skin there had long since healed over…