But she still didn't fight for me. Still let Father control me, just like she let him control her.
My hands shake as I unfold the next letter.
My dearest Brigitte,
The war presses harder against us each day. I feel it in the air, heavy and suffocating, as though the very earth beneath my feet trembles with uncertainty. Yet, in the midst of all this chaos, you are my anchor. Every time I close my eyes, I see you—your smile, the way your hair catches the light. You've become my sanctuary, the only place my soul finds peace.
I can't reconcile this passion with the quiet woman who raised me. The woman who moved through this house like a ghost, never making waves, never demanding anything for herself.
I'm not the man I was when I left you. Each battle strips something from me, something I fear I'll never get back. But what remains, what keeps me standing, is the thought of coming home to you. Every letter you send is a lifeline, a reminder that there is still beauty and love in this world, though it often feels like a dream I may never touch again.
Did she write back? Did she send those lifelines, or did her silence begin even then?
I don't know when this war will end. I only know that when it does, I need you by my side. Hold on to me, my love, as I hold on to you. I fight not just for country or honor, but for us—always for us.
Yours eternally,Anthony
Yours eternally. But she wasn't his, was she?
The next letter unfolds in my trembling hands.
My dearest Brigitte,
I dream of you often, of the day I'll finally come back to you. It's the thought of that moment—your arms around me, your laughter filling the air—that keeps me going through all of this.
Her laughter. God, when did she stop laughing?
I've asked my best friend, Henry, to check in on you while I'm away. I trust him with my life, and I know he'll keep yousafe, just as I wish I could. It brings me some comfort to know someone I trust is near you, even if I can't be.
Oh no. Oh God, no. Henry. Grandfather Henry?
My stomach drops. I know how this story ends, and suddenly I don't want to keep reading. But I can't stop. The words pull me forward like a current I'm powerless to resist.
The war feels endless, but I hold on to the hope that soon I'll be able to look into your eyes and feel like myself again. Stay strong, my love. We will have our time again, I promise you that.
With all my heart,Anthony
"Stay strong," I whisper to the empty room. "But she didn't, did she?"
The betrayal is there in the next letter before I even unfold it. I can feel it in the quality of the paper, the urgency of the handwriting.
My dearest Brigitte,
It's been weeks since I've heard from you. I tell myself that letters can be delayed in times like these, but the silence gnaws at me. The war intensifies around us—bombs rain down like a ceaseless storm, and the fear grows thicker each day. I feel... lost without your words. I'm fighting in a fog with no direction.
My chest aches. I know this feeling. The silence of someone who should love you but doesn't respond. The desperate need for confirmation that you still matter, that you're still seen.
I need to hear from you. I need to know that your heart still beats with mine, that the world outside these trenches hasn't swallowed us whole. I've seen so much death, too much for any man to bear, but losing you would be the one blow I could not recover from.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. Don't cry. Don't cry.
But I am crying. For him. For her. For all of us trapped in cycles we can't break.
Please send word soon. Tell me you're still waiting for me, that you still believe in what we have. Without you, none of this makes sense.
With all my love,Anthony
The next letter trembles in my hands.
