They both fell silent. John’s absence weighed on them heavily and the mention of his name always brought a fresh sadness. Though he’d had the most comfortable bed in the attic, they left it vacant because something just didn’t feel right about taking his spot.

Tom would give anything to be kept awake by his friend’s snoring.

Tom nodded at William’s suggestion. It made sense. No need to rock the boat for Margaret just yet. Surely she felt the loss even more acutely.

Victoria lifted her shaggy head, pulling them out of their thoughts. Her hearing was attuned to the particular sound of Mr. Brown’s bicycle as he rode down the path that led to his house. She was always several seconds ahead of any human ears.

Mrs. Brown came downstairs, as was her habit, when this played out, and stood in front of the mirror by the door fluffing her thinning gray hair.

Tom smiled. What a delight to witness a couple married so long yet still preparing to greet the other with the care that one might with a new love.

If he ever married, he would like for it to look like this.

As predicted, Tom saw Mr. Brown set the bicycle against the side of the house and come around to the front door. William jumped up and opened it for him. He had a large parcel under his arm, which he handed to William.

“I ran into your Winters fellow while I was picking up flour near Littlecote,” he said. “He asked if I could bring this to you.”

“What is it?” William asked as he pulled a Swiss Army Knife from his pocket and started to cut the twine.

“Letters. A couple dozen of them, your Winters said. Looks like your family had the wrong address this whole time. They were sending them to that house in Aldbourne that you were originally assigned to. Since no one was at the carriage house, they’d just been collecting. The owners never noticed until they were given a new soldier to use the space. They drove them over to Littlecote hoping someone would know where you were.”

It was the longest string of sentences Tom had ever heard Mr. Brown say and he was charmed by the joy in the old man’s eyes at delivering something that had troubled William for the past few months.

William opened the parcel fully and looked at each one as if it were a Christmas gift.

“They’ve all written,” he said. “Even my father.” He held them all to his chest. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go read them upstairs.”

*  *  *

February 1944

My dearest Margaret,

William’s latest letter began the same way they always did, but it had a ring of sincerity each time.