The streets were silent. Only the crunch of his boots broke the stillness as he wandered aimlessly through the frozen lanes. Snowflakes clung to his hair, melted on the heat of his cheeks, ran down his face as though the sky itself wept for him.
Thomas had faced the battlefield without flinching. He had looked death in the eye and defied it. But this—this was a wound deeper than any musket ball, more final than the surgeon's saw. His heart, once burning with love, now lay in shards scattered across the snow.
He passed the church where they had wed. He remembered her veil, her smile, the way her hand had trembled in his. He passed the market stalls where they had walked together, laughing as children begged for sweets. All of it seemed like a life he had never truly lived, a dream shattered by cruel waking.
The medal pressed against his chest like an anchor, heavy and meaningless. Glory, honor, survival—what use were they, when the reason for them was gone?
And so Thomas Whitaker, the boy who had endured war for the sake of love, vanished into the winter night. His footprints stretched behind him in the snow, leading away from the warm glow of the home he would never enter again.
By morning, the city would stir once more. The factories would bellow smoke, the carriages would rattle, the bells of St. Paul's would toll. Life would go on. But Thomas was gone, leaving nothing behind but ashes in the snow.