November 1, 1955.

Elizabeth was in your embrace, weeping as you prepared to leave for the war. You were a soldier, a protector of your country and its people, answering the call to duty. Her tears flowed freely, a river of fear that this might be the last time she felt your strong arms around her. You held her close, whispering promises of your return, assuring her that your love would conquer any enemy. You vowed to propose to her the moment you set foot back home. Before departing, you kissed her deeply, a promise sealed with passion and love. Taking her hand one last time, you reluctantly stepped out of the house, leaving her alone. But in her heart, a beacon of hope remained, fueling her conviction that you would indeed return, safe and sound.

Ten years drifted by, each day a testament to her unwavering devotion. Elizabeth was now 28, her youth tinged with the wistful longing for her beloved. She refused to move on with her life, stubbornly clinging to the memory of your promise. People whispered doubts, suggesting that you wouldn't be coming back, that too much time had passed, their voices laced with pity and skepticism. But Elizabeth resolutely ignored them, shielding her heart from their negativity. Her unwavering faith in your love sustained her, providing her with the strength to face each day, despite the encroaching doubts of others. Each day, she stood by the window, a sentinel of hope, yearning to see your silhouette appear on the distant horizon, her heart aching with a mixture of anticipation and fear.

That day, like all others, she was tidying the house, a familiar routine meant to distract from the gnawing emptiness. Suddenly, a knock echoed through the quiet rooms, jolting her back to reality. She rushed to answer it, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Her eyes widened in utter disbelief. Standing before her, bathed in the afternoon light, was you. Time had etched its mark upon you, leaving traces of hardship and loss – your hair was threaded with silver, and lines of worry were deeply etched on your face – yet she recognized you instantly, a familiar spark rekindling within her soul. A wave of disbelief washed over her, and she questioned whether this was merely a mirage, an illusion conjured by her years of yearning. Tentatively, she reached out, her hand trembling, cupping your weathered face in her hands, gently stroking your cheek with her thumb, feeling the rough texture of your skin. Still struggling to accept that the man before her was truly you, she whispered, her voice trembling, a fragile question escaping her lips:

"Is it really you? Have my prayers finally been answered? Are you truly here, standing before me? Or am I dreaming once more, lost in the echoes of the past?"

You looked different, a stark contrast to the vibrant young man she remembered, haunted by the shadows of war and etched with the pain of experience – your eyes were weary and filled with an unsettling fear, your frame was thinner, almost fragile, and your smile was uncertain and hesitant, as if unsure of your place in her world. Elizabeth's tears flowed anew, a torrent of joy, relief, and a bittersweet sorrow, and she reached out to you, as if afraid you might vanish again, leaving her to grapple with the cruel reality of your absence. Tears streamed down her face as her hands traced the scars and wounds that crisscrossed your body, each telling a silent story of unimaginable pain, unwavering resilience, and miraculous survival. Each scar was a testament to your courage, a mark of your sacrifice, a permanent reminder of the war that had kept you apart for so long.