A Soldier's Love

The first letter of the month arrived with a dull thud against the wool runner, a heavy intrusion upon the solemn burgeoning spring afternoon. The parchment was brittle—an amber page that felt precariously fragile beneath her touch—and it bore the tactile residue of the front: streaks of soot and calcified grime that smeared charcoal across her rosy skin.

Sophie Johnson moved with an invigorating clip-clop of her heels, the sound echoing off the polished floorboards before she sank into the velvet embrace of the refurbished armchair. It was a heavily storied thing; Albert's mother had practically laboured herself to the bone to ensure its passage from the old dust of Poland to the quiet suburbs of Illinois.

Mr. Robert, the weary postman of Elsah—the small riverside village tucked along the bluffs of the Mississippi—had taken to grumbling about the flood of letters passing through his hands. Envelopes arrived in heavy sacks, their corners softened by anxious fingers and their paper worn thin from rereading. They came from grieving husbands, from sons barely old enough to shave, and from fiancées clinging to promises.

Most were bound for soldiers stationed overseas, many sent to Poland to stem the tide of the advancing Nazis. The Elsah post office, responsible for distributing mail along the coast and into the surrounding state, had become catastrophically overworked. Its clerks laboured from dawn until lamplight, sorting and stamping correspondence that travelled across Illinois and beyond, reaching even the small industrial towns where factory smoke curled into the same sky the rest of the world looked upon.

From the murmurs she gathered the other afternoon—overhearing mailmen as they searched for a missing delivery boy along the road—there was news of Sophie’s letters stored away in a lost satchel. Several of Albert’s messages had indeed arrived safely, though they would be delivered in tardy pulses due to the overwhelming rush of parcels and the mystery of that missing bag. Yet, she remained calm enough to wait for the post as she did every day; for weeks had passed since he departed, and she had learned the art of patience.

Her eyes roam the envelope with a quick, hungry run; the small, flaky burgundy stamp of a Boeing 247, plastered on the soiled parchment, likely battered by travel through various countries. As she broke the seal, she drew out a page heavy with dampness, its fibres weathered and soot-stained from its arduous transit. The words seemed to shimmy and dance before her eyes, rendered in a dose of black puddle.

"February 12, 1940

My Dearest Sophie,

The scarf you gifted me for my 28th birthday still torments me in my mind. It is hauntingly beautiful; I cling to its wool as if it were the last tether of warmth I have left in this world.

There is a peculiar cruelty to the sky here on the Belarusian front. This morning, as the fog lifted over the pines, the horizon bled into that exact, piercing blue of your silk scarf—the one you wore the day we walked through the orchard. For a moment, the smoke of the artillery cleared, and I saw you in the sky.

I saw the way the wind caught the fabric, mirroring the clouds that now drift toward the west, toward you. It is a strange mercy, Sophie, to find your colours in a place so devoid of grace. The mud here is colourless, the hunger is gray, but the sky... the sky is a constant reminder that something beautiful still exists, even if it is out of my reach. I keep the scarf tucked beneath my tunic, pressed against my heartbeat, so that even when the air turns to ice, I am still wrapped in the memory of your touch.

Wait for me as the winter thaws.

All my devotion, Albert Bristco."

Sophie lifts her head, her gaze drifting toward the sky as her vision flickers with a haunting projection of what Albert must see: the brutality of battle and the bodies left to thaw in a cold, indifferent air that threatens the very memory of warmth. She presses the letter to her chest, her heart’s steady ticking a prayer for his safety. She desperately hungers for more—for the promised letters still adrift in the world—yet she remains still. With a quiet tranquillity, she slips the page back into its packaging, securing it with a frayed drawstring salvaged from the mountain of older parcels she has gathered over the months.

Her mind races, imagining the surreal prose yet to come from his hand, those gorgeous fragments of his being. She longs for his words to bridge the distance, for her last memories of him are fading into the ephemeral: the tender ghost of a kiss upon her temple, and his scent—that earthy nectar of daisies intertwined with the intoxicating, heavy sweetness of lilies that he would gather every day as the clock struck noon.

Through the empty, echoing heart of their home, a sudden rhythm of knocks erupts—a frantic, heaving against the wood. This, due to the clatter, causes Sophie to tauten her blouse, her hands clamping together, her heart halting in its tracks before resuming its beats. Another set of knocks echoed, and Sophie hurried to the entryway.

Her fingers danced over the vintage locks—locks that used to groan and wail in protest. Now, they yielded in absolute silence.

As the door swung open without a sound, the memory of Albert rushed in to fill the quiet. She could almost see him again, slipping out of bed while she still slept toward the oil and metal, to tighten the screws, just so her rest wouldn't be broken by a squeak. He had come to her later that morning, his hands still smelling of machine oil and maple syrup, pressing a bunch of wildflowers into her palms alongside a plate of breakfast. He’d brushed off her thanks with a tip of his bashful demeanour, as though rebuilding her world, piece by piece, was simply the natural way a man would spend his breath.

In the core of her mind, she yearned to see Albert as he once was: back from the battlefield, pristine and unharmed by the storm of war. She imagined his hands tangling in the chocolate silk of her hair, his hands snaking to the nape of her neck. This, while offering an impossible armful of wildflowers gathered from the meadows of Poland. She longed to see his chestnut locks swept aside in that familiar, careless wave, his eyes burning with a singular, aching devotion for her. She wanted to leap into his reach, to feel him hoist her high as they danced their shared sorrows into the floorboards, erasing every agonizing second of their separation.

But the threshold held no hero. Instead, a boy stood there, small and weary, extending a meagre offering: three envelopes riddled with the grit of the road, a parcel clinging to life by a few frayed threads, and a portrait of Albert—stiff and formal in his pristine dress blues. Sophie’s brow knit in a tight chevron of confusion as she gathered the items into her trembling hands. She watched the boy distractedly fiddle with a stamp, his movements sluggish as he pounded a leaden pencil onto his notepad.

“Is this all?”

"We searched hard for any other messages. Yet, this is the only items that we were given. It would seem that the rest of the parcels may still be lost, or this is all we have." He fiddled with his satchel, turning his gaze up towards Sophie with a sympathetic tilt. Sophie nods, sending her gratitude to the young scout who has salvaged the posts, before drawing the door shut against the gust that seemed to quicken in anticipation

Her fingers lapse on a nervous, erratic path over the items as she sets the boxes upon the polished wood of the table. Retreating to the sanctuary of her armchair, she forced her breath into a steady, careful draw. With trembling care, she began to unfurl the second letter. Its pages were weary and travelled, just as the first had been, yet this one seemed to have more care, and slips of portraits of his battles.

“February 20th, 1940

My Dearest Sophie,

The weather has picked up quite quickly since my last post to you. It has become a more bitter and cold draft, taken up at the residence I lie within. The nights have become winter, stripped of the warmth that it once pressed against our chests.

I find my thoughts drifting back to our home—to the way the evening light used to pool at your feet while you mended your care to me. I hold to that memory as one might hold to a guttering candle, just to keep the frost from settling in the marrow of my bones. I pray my previous letter found its way to you, though the sergeant has told me that it has become uncertain, of late.

I have read your letter and have gained access to the beautifully knitted gloves. I promise, I will return, to mere my lips against you calloused fingers, tenderly erasing your pain.

In this parcel, I have sent a few small things salvaged from the battle. I found these wildflowers near a collapsed stone wall—crushed, yet stubbornly beautiful despite the season of the cold. I have kept them tucked against my coat through the noise of the nights, as if their fragile petals and scent were worth something I could share with you. One, I have placed onto the ocean blue scarf, and the others I have sent through with the portrait.

When you look upon the portrait, I ask that you do not see the stiff wool of this uniform or the hollowed look of a soldier whom had gained memories of the destruction of mankind. Look only into the glass, Sophie, and know that every breath I draw is a slow, steady march back toward the doorstep where you stand.

Yours, always,

Albert Bristco”

Her fingers brush against the cool glass, a smile tilting upwards to the sky, feathering against the pressed daisies and poppies clinging desperately to the pages, their remnants of moisture soaked against the paper, leaving a stain of red and green.

Her eyes mind over Albert, eyes scoring the way his eyebrows lift, and his smile, the same as the years of living have singed into the portrait. Though it was apparent, with the hollow of the eye sockets and the deepening of the cheeks, her fiancé was doing his duty. Her heart pangs of guilt, yet of admiration at the protection he carries for her alone.

She lifts the paper, the scent of the flower bellowing through. Her heart stings with pain, tears stricken as she dives into the next envelope. She violently rips the page out, unfolding and reading the stricken paper.

“February 28th, 1940

My Dearest Beloved Sophie,

The wool of the gloves you knitted has been my only shield against a winter that strikes these fields. They are the only things that feel real—the only things keeping my mind from fraying as the days blur. I have watched my comrades fall, left to the silence of the frost and the prowling of the vultures, but when I press my cold hands together, I can still feel the ghost of your touch in the weave of the yarn.

I have escaped the worst of it for now, following the Sergeant's final command. I am currently hidden deep in the earth of a bunker while the search continues above. In this heavy darkness, I close my eyes and find myself back in the vicinity with you. I can hear the soft click of your needles and smell the faint, citrusy sharpness of the tea you favoured. I pray to whatever stars are left above this trench that the earth would simply fold in on itself and place me back at your feet. I would give every breath I have left just to sit in that silence with you, watching the shadows of the Mississippi bluffs across the floor.

I feel as if I lie in my own grave, far from where I would want to remain; in your arms, cradled as the dusk succumbs and the early beams filter onto your warm embrace. I await your fingers to caress the hollows of my cheeks away, that your angelic touch may bring me back from the dead.

I remain, as ever, your shadow,

Albert Bristco”

Sophie, shaken, gazes at the heavy parcel, her mind pacing through many of her wishes. She timidly lifts the final letter, which is stricken of splatters of crimson, doused in the scent of wildflowers. Her lips quiver, and her eyes shut tight, opening the final passage of the parcel.

“March 10, 1940,

My beloved Sophie,

I lay bare within the memory of your arms. In this hollow silence, I can almost hear you humming that blissful melody; “How Deep Is The Ocean” drifts through the static of my mind, and all I see is you. I see you singing, your fingers tracing waves of my hair, combing through my unspoken desires with a tenderness that aches, making me tremble.

I clench your gloves to my face, for your scent still clings to the threads—a ghost of salt and sweetness that tells me you have wept for me as I have for you. The air here has grown thin and brittle; my body has wasted away, becoming transparent, yet I am filled to bursting with the thought of you. I pine for the way you used to cradle my hands, pressing kisses upon my bruises as if your lips could draw the mistakes from my past. I find myself searching within the shadows for that intoxicating perfume—the one I bought to please you—until the darkness itself smells of your grace.

I have finished the last of my meagre rations, and my stomach craves the devotion of your table. I feel your presence so keenly now, Sophie, that I must speak the truth before the light fails. I know it is a cruel and ragged thing to ask, to bind your beautiful life to a man who may never step out of this darkness, but I cannot go to the silence without belonging to you.

It is not the altar we dreamed of—there are no lilies, no white lace, only the cold earth and this black ink—but here, in the presence of whatever spirits haunt this bunker, I ask you to be my wife. Take my name, take my soul, and carry it with you into the spring. If I am to pass, let it be as your husband, stepping from this life into the next with your ring burned into my heart. My breath is short, and the search grows loud above.

Goodbye, my light. I shall wait for you in the clearing beyond the smoke.

Your Husband, in this life and the next,

Albert”

The tears erupt, hot and salt-thick, carving tracks through the battlefield soot that still clung to her skin—a cruel baptism into a widowhood. Outside, the spring rain turned the world into a blurred, weeping watercolour, mocking her with the promise of life while the air in the parlour grew stale and heavy. Sophie crushed the brittle parchment against her heart, her lungs seizing in a trembling, agonizing heaving that sounded like the very "thunder" Albert had described in the trenches.

Her vision splintered. With fingers that felt like lead, she pried open the final parcel, her breath hitching in a jagged, airless sob. There, folded with a ghostly neatness, were the scarf and gloves—returned. They were no longer just wool; they were a shroud. As she pulled them to her face, she collapsed, her knees striking the floorboards with a hollow, final thud.

The desiccated dust of the pressed wildflowers fell from the fibres like dried scabs, staining the carpet he would never walk upon again. She buried her face in the weave, inhaling the terrifyingly vivid scent of him—the metallic bite of the front, the stale musk of his perfume and the sweet scent of flowers clinging desperately on the edges.

“I do,” she shrieks into the empty house, the words muffled by the wool. She gripped the scarf so hard her knuckles turned the colour of the paper he had written on. In the silence that flooded the area, only the ticking of the clock remained.

“I do, Albert. I do.”