Margaret would have thought the events of the day would have made her eager to nestle into the softness of her feather mattress, but she found herself unable to sleep. She got up well before the sun to pen her thoughts into a letter to William. She had been given the day off, despite it being a Monday, along with most of the women who had exhausted themselves with the festivities of the day before. Still, she found herself unable to sleep in late, as it had never been her habit.

She put on a light sweater and walked the letter out to the nearest blue mailbox. She hesitated before sending it off.

Increasingly, her thoughts turned toward writing to William. At first, she’d written to give some cheer to a soldier who was not otherwise hearing from home. Then his presence as a friend to John had warmed her heart. But as the months ticked by, penning words to him had become as cathartic as a diary and as vital as oxygen.

Especially of late. There was something about the last couple she’d received. It was almost imperceptible, the change she’d noticed. The letters had the same handwriting. The same flowers Tom sketched at the end. But the words—there was something about the words that was just a little more…fluid. A little more deep. As if he’d revealed a keyhole to his heart and she was the one being allowed to peek through.

Was that love? She didn’t think so. Though her heart beat quicker when an envelope bearing his handwriting arrived at their door, and though she looked forward to embroidering the latest iteration of English flowers for him, she didn’t think there was any more to it than the anticipation of a source of joy. Much like knowing that you were going to the ice cream parlor on Sunday. And then the pleasure when that day came.

In all likelihood, the familiarity that came with such continued correspondence naturally increased intimacy with each one. It was no more than that. Imagining that there was anything else was the simple product of being surrounded by Dottie and George, Gladys and Oliver—the fresh bloom of love surrounding her daily like an inescapable perfume.

But whatever it could be called, she found that the desire to bare her soul to someone—even someone whose face she had never seen—was a new impulse that was intoxicating.

The other half of the equation—mutual attraction, the electricity of a touch—these were things to be considered another day. Ruminating on such things was a poor use of time, and her fingernails were chewed to their stubs from enough worry as it was.

She’d have to wait until the end of the war to find her answers to this and to all her questions about the future.