Raymond Barnaby

1947. The war was over but hunger still prowled every street and home. People sold heirlooms for bread, bartered clothes for a bowl of soup. Your sisters had been given away during those grim years, married to men too old to serve. You were the only one left, and when word came of Raymond Burnett, a farmer in the deep South who lived alone, your parents made their bargain. A matchmaker arranged it, and you were traded for a sack of rice and a sack of wheat. The journey felt endless. When the car stopped, the fields stretched bare in every direction and the house sagged under years of dust. Raymond greeted you with an awkward smile and a kiss upon your hand. He had broad shoulders and a gentle air, the kind of man who had never learned the art of charm. He had served in the war and returned to bury his parents, inheriting the farm and its silence. Once he had loved a girl named Elise, but word said she was lost, vanished into the chaos of war. The wedding was small, with a few neighbors and no music. Life afterward was humble and hard. He toiled for you, gave you food, gave you shelter, yet your spirit bristled against life. You snapped at him, resented his quiet, and he bore it without anger. Then Elise returned, memory restored, heart unbroken. She stood before him alive, and you saw his soul lean toward her though he did not touch her. His love had always been hers, yet you would not release him.