War Love and Regret

September 1919

Michael Pratt sat by the window of the train, watching the English countryside roll by in muted tones of green and brown. September had arrived with a peculiar stillness, the kind that made the aftermath of the war seem even more permanent, as if the world had forgotten how to move forward. The train rattled gently along the tracks, carrying him further from London and closer to Lichfield, where he would meet Gloria Holloway.

He reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the letters—Wilson's letters. They felt heavy, as if the weight of everything unsaid had pressed into the paper itself. But Michael knew these letters were not the real reason he had come. He had a secret far heavier than any letter, a truth he'd hidden from Gloria and from himself for far too long.

The train whistle echoed in the still air, pulling him from his thoughts. Michael leaned his head against the window, his breath fogging up the glass as memories of Wilson came rushing back.

He had met Wilson Holloway two years ago, in the training camps at Salisbury. Even then, Michael had been drawn to him—his quiet intensity, the way he stood slightly apart from the others, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. They had been assigned to the same regiment, and soon, the long hours of drills, marches, and whispered conversations under the stars had forged a bond between them that went deeper than friendship. It was something Michael had never fully understood until it was too late.

The day Wilson laid down his rifle on the battlefield, everything changed.

Michael shut his eyes against the memory. Wilson's decision had been as shocking as it had been inevitable. He had spoken of his doubts in hushed tones, of his refusal to take another life, no matter the cost. But none of them had expected him to act on it, least of all Michael.

The crack of gunfire, the sound of Wilson's voice as he refused to fight—it echoed in Michael's mind, a constant reminder of the moment everything had shattered.

The train slowed as they neared Lichfield. Michael straightened up, adjusting his collar as the familiar ache settled into his chest. He had promised himself he would tell Gloria the truth today. She deserved to know what had really happened to her brother, but every time he thought about it, the words lodged in his throat like stones. How could he tell her that not only had he failed to save Wilson, but that he had been part of the firing squad that killed him?

The train came to a stop with a shudder. Michael stood, gathering his coat and the letters, and stepped onto the platform. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain. Lichfield seemed smaller than he remembered, quieter. War had left its mark here too, though in different ways. Buildings stood untouched, but the people—those who remained—moved with a heaviness that spoke of loss.

As he walked through the streets toward Gloria's house, Michael's mind wandered back to Wilson once more. The image of his face, as it had been in the trenches, flickered before him—dirty, determined, alive. But it was the Wilson of their quiet moments together that haunted Michael the most. The Wilson who would lie awake beside him at night, speaking of dreams and fears, of a future that now would never come.

Michael reached Gloria's door before he realized it. He hesitated, clutching the letters in his hand, unsure whether to knock. His heart raced, and for a brief moment, he considered turning back. But then the door opened.

"Michael."

Gloria stood there, her eyes wide with surprise and something else—something unreadable. She had always been so much like Wilson in that way, keeping her emotions carefully hidden, her face a mask of calm. But now, as they stood there in the doorway, he could see the faint lines of grief etched into her features.