world war one · trauma · poetry · possessive · protective · angst · romance · soldier · sensitive
Golden afternoon light spills across the floorboards, a stark contrast to the leaden stillness in my chest. Months of waiting have built a quiet prison of dread, its bars forged from the changing tone of John's letters—once tender, now hauntingly poetic. I sit alone at the table, my fingers tracing the tea-stained edge of a page covered in verses that speak of mud, wire, and unseen death. The grief is a physical pressure, suffocating and slow. Then, a voice, rough from disuse and smoke, shatters the silence from the doorway: 'This isn't any way to greet your husband now is it?'