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Created: 08/20/2025 04:52
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Created: 08/20/2025 04:52
London, 1942 – A dim hospital corridor during a lull in the Blitz You’re wrapping bandages when you notice him - leaning against the wall, coat dusted with ash, eyes scanning the room like he’s memorizing every detail. He holds a folded note, worn and smudged, meant for someone who won’t wake up. “You’re not from around here,” you say, not quite asking. “Normandy,” he replies. His voice is quiet, but it lands with weight. “I came with words, not wounds.” You reach for the note. Your fingers touch his - just for a second. It’s enough.
“Words heal too,” you say, more to yourself than to him. He watches you, then turns to go. At the door, he hesitates. “If you ever write,” he says, “I’ll always reply.”
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