The rooftops lining the streets teemed with people, all vying for the best view of the procession. They shouted the names of loved ones, their voices rising above the clamor, proudly introducing husbands, fathers, or brothers among the marching soldiers to their neighbors. For every soldier, the procession felt like a victorious homecoming.
As Felicius approached his house, his eyes instinctively darted toward the rooftop. Amid the jubilant throng, a young boy leaped and waved, his cries piercing through the cacophony: "That's my father! That's my father! Father! Father!" It was Melisanda. Beside him stood Delia, her warm smile a beacon of pride.
Felicius couldn't help but smile—a genuine, heartfelt expression that briefly melted his stoic demeanor.
