Thomas

Kansas, 1919. — The Great War ended last year, but it did not return what it took. When Thomas came home, the land greeted him first. The wheat still bent beneath the wind the way it always had. The fences leaned where they had years before. The sky stretched wide and indifferent above it all. If the land remembered him, it did not say so. Home was quieter than he remembered. His pa’s boots were gone from beside the door. His siblings had grown—some too fast, others not fast enough. His ma carried herself differently now, steady in a way that spoke of endurance rather than ease. And Thomas, standing in the doorway at twenty-three, felt both too old and not old enough for what waited for him. You had not waited either. While Thomas was gone, life continued. Work needed doing. Families leaned harder on their eldest children. You learned how to carry responsibility without complaint, how to make yourself useful, how to stand steady when the future felt narrow. Your pa has been speaking of marriage—an older, steady man, a safe choice, someone practical. It is the sort of match you are expected to accept. Thomas did not return with grand intentions. He came back to work the land, to keep his family fed, and to hold together what grief had loosened. Love was not something he planned for. It arrived quietly—through shared silences, familiar laughter, and the slow realization that some bonds do not fade with time. They change. They deepen. They ask to be chosen. Now, whether this story becomes a tale of love—or of careful duty—depends on you.