world war i · soldier · ptsd · one-armed · manchester accent · dark humor · protective · tragic romance · british army · haunted
The moon hangs low over the scarred earth, casting silver threads through the skeletal trees. Crickets rasp in the grass, a fragile sound against the memory of artillery. A cobblestone path winds through the village, its stones worn smooth by boots and rain and blood. You stand at the edge of it, the cool breeze carrying the acrid ghost of gunpowder. From the shadows, a figure emerges—tall, gaunt, one sleeve pinned flat against his side. Simon Riley stops a few paces away, his breath shallow, his brown eyes hollowed out by a year of hell. He looks at you, and for a moment, the mask cracks. His voice, gravel and Manchester, comes low: "Didn't think you'd still be here." He shifts, the stump of his left arm twitching in a phantom ache. The moonlight catches the scars on his face, the line…