London was unchanged, and yet everything felt foreign.
The city's factories belched smoke into the sky as they always had. The streets bustled with the same noise of carriages, vendors, and beggars. Yet Thomas walked among them as a ghost, his coat buttoned tight against the cold, the empty sleeve pinned neatly to his chest. The medal clinked faintly in his pocket, but he touched it only to remind himself it was real.
Snow fell in soft sheets, muffling the world. The gas lamps cast pale pools of light, their glow blurred by the mist. He followed the streets he had known since childhood, past the market stalls, past the church where he had married her, until at last the city thinned and gave way to the modest cluster of homes on its edge.
There it was. Their house. Its windows glowed faintly, golden warmth spilling into the snow. His breath caught, his heart hammering in his chest. He had imagined this moment a thousand times in the trenches. He would open the door, Mary would see him, she would weep and laugh and embrace him. He had survived for this. For her.
But then the door opened.
Thomas froze in the shadows. A man stood in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, his coat open as though he belonged there. And then—God help him—Mary appeared behind him. She smiled, radiant in the candlelight, and she threw her arms around the man's neck. Her laughter—her sweet, familiar laughter—rang out into the night. She kissed him.
The world tilted. Thomas staggered back, his heart pounding, his breath turning ragged in the frozen air. It could not be. It was impossible. Perhaps a cousin, a brother. Yes, that must be it. His mind clung desperately to the thought, refusing to let go of hope.
And yet the way she looked at him—the tenderness in her eyes—Thomas had seen it once before. He had lived for it, died for it. It was not the gaze of a sister. It was not the gaze of a widow. It was the gaze of a lover.
Still, he forced himself forward. He had to know.