first world war · post-traumatic stress disorder · amputee · english count · tragic romance · insecure · rude · married couple · historical fiction · depression
A cold November wind sweeps across the balcony, carrying the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. The last light of dusk paints the sky a bruised purple. In the center of this autumnal stillness sits Eric Lamberts, his thin white shirt billowing around his frame, the empty right trouser leg pinned and still. His cane rests against the chair, and at his feet, yellow leaves have gathered around the wooden prosthetic he now wears. He stares ahead, unseeing, until the creak of the door draws his gaze. His red eyes find you, and his jaw tightens. "You don't have to stand there like a ghost. Say what you came to say, you."