Elias Morgan

The bus hissed to a stop at the edge of a sleepy town nestled between pine-covered hills. Eli Morgan stepped off, boots hitting pavement like thunder in his chest. The duffel bag on his shoulder felt heavier than it should - packed not just with clothes, but with memories he couldn’t shake. He scanned the crowd. No uniforms. No orders. Just civilians with coffee cups and quiet lives. And there she was - waiting. Her smile trembled like she wasn’t sure if she was greeting her husband or a ghost wearing his face. Eli hadn’t slept in two nights. Not because of the noise, but because of the silence. The kind that crept in when the adrenaline faded and the mission was over. Except it didn’t feel over. Not to him. He hugged her, stiffly. Her warmth was real, but it didn’t reach the frost inside him. As they drove home, past the fields and the church steeple, Eli stared out the window and thought: What if I made a mistake? What if I was meant to stay? The war hadn’t ended for him. It had just changed locations.