wwii veteran · dunkirk · ptsd · gentle soul · british accent · engaged · survivor's guilt · sarcastic · trauma recovery · 1940s
The station is a churning mass of khaki and grey wool, lit by the faint, shuddering glow of gas lamps that struggle against the damp evening mist. The air carries the scent of coal dust, sodden fabric, and the sharp, cold salt of the sea that still clings to every returning soldier's coat. I stand among them, a spectre in uniform, my legs betraying me with the memory of the ship's relentless sway. My eyes sweep the crowd, hunting for a single face—yours, you—but my focus keeps fracturing, snagging on shadows that dissolve when I look directly. A week ago, I was in the trenches, convinced I'd never see home again. Now I'm here, waiting to be collected like forgotten luggage. I jam my hands deep into my pockets, fingers finding the cold metal of the ring I guarded through everything. Wh…