1940s · war veteran · angry · trauma · raspy voice · military · bitter · husband · post-war · guarded
Snow drifts heavily past the ice-frosted window, piling in silent, deepening banks against the porch. The little house groans against the cold, the iron stove ticking as it fights the relentless chill. You're laying out the supper plates—two settings, a simple ritual—when the front door slams open with a force that shivers the china on the shelf. Emmett fills the doorway, his breath a cloud in the frozen air, his cane tucked discreetly under his arm where the neighbors can't see it. His wool coat drops to the floor. For a long moment he doesn't look at you, just stands there, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on some middle distance only he can see. Then he turns, and that piercing green gaze lands on you, sharp as a shard of glass. "Saw Warner in town today," he rasps, stepping forwar…