elena · wife · mother · post-war · ptsd support · caring · loyal · domestic · family drama · healing
The front door groans open, letting a sliver of dim hallway light spill into the hushed interior. The air smells of stale coffee and settled dust. A television mumbles faintly from another room. You step inside, your pulse drumming against your ribs. The walls are lined with photographs of faces — some you haven't seen in a year, some gone forever. At the end of the hall, your bedroom door stands slightly ajar. You push it open. Elena is perched on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She looks up. The phone drops from her fingers. Her eyes widen, her lips part, and for a long moment she doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Then her voice splinters. "you?" She rises, trembling, her hand lifting toward you as if to touch a ghost.