April 3, 1915
My dearest Margaret,
They finally allowed us paper today. I am writing this in a crowded tent while rain taps against the canvas like quiet footsteps. It has been three weeks since I left home, and already the world feels different.
The train ride here was long and loud with young men trying to hide their fear behind laughter. Some of them talk about glory and medals, but most of us just talk about home.
I keep thinking about the morning I left.
You standing on the porch with your hands wrapped around that blue shawl you love. You tried to smile when I waved, but I know you well enough to see the tears waiting behind it.
Please don’t worry too much for me. They tell us the war will not last long.
And when it is over, I will walk back up that porch step and you will scold me for tracking mud into the house again.
Until then, keep the garden alive for me.
All my love,
Thomas
July 19, 1915
My Margaret,
It is summer now, though you would not know it from where we are.
The trenches are long scars carved into the earth. The ground is always wet, and the mud clings to our boots like it never wants to let go. Sometimes I think the whole world has turned into one endless storm.
Still, there are moments of quiet.
Yesterday, a bird landed on the edge of the trench. No one moved. For a few seconds we all simply watched it hop along the sandbags like it owned the place.
I thought about how strange it must look to the bird—so many men hiding underground.
When I closed my eyes last night, I tried to imagine the smell of your cooking drifting through the house. I could almost hear the old clock ticking on the wall.
Those memories keep me warm when the nights grow cold.
Write to me when you can.
Your husband always,
Thomas
December 25, 1915
My love,
It is Christmas today.
I was afraid it would feel empty here, but something strange happened this morning. The firing stopped for a little while, and the silence was so sudden it startled everyone.
One of the men started humming a carol under his breath.
Soon others joined him.
I stood there in the cold listening to voices rise into the grey sky, and for a moment the war felt very far away.
I pictured you lighting the candles by the window the way you always do. I hope the snow has fallen gently this year.
If you can, place one candle for me tonight.
Not because I am gone.
But because I am still trying to find my way back.
Forever yours,
Thomas
May 2, 1916
Margaret,
Spring has returned, though the fields here do not bloom the way they should.
Sometimes I catch the scent of wildflowers carried by the wind, and it feels almost cruel. It reminds me how beautiful the world can be outside this place.
We lost a young man in our company yesterday. His name was Daniel, and he used to talk endlessly about the bakery his family owned back home.
I helped write the letter to his mother.
It is a strange thing, Margaret, to write words that you know will break someone’s heart.
It made me realize how lucky I am to still have the chance to write to you.
So I will keep writing, even if these letters arrive late or never at all.
Because somewhere out there is the woman who taught me what home feels like.
Thomas
October 14, 1917
My dearest Margaret,
The war has gone on longer than any of us expected.
The men who arrived with me are not the same anymore. Some have left us, and others carry quiet shadows in their eyes.
But I still carry something stronger than fear.
Hope.
Every night, before sleep comes, I imagine the road that leads back to our house. I imagine your footsteps crossing the wooden floor, the sound of the kettle boiling, the warmth of your hand in mine.
Those thoughts keep me walking forward.
If fate is kind, one day I will sit across from you at our table and tell you about everything I could not write in these letters.
Until that day, know this:
No matter how far away this war takes me, every step I survive is one step closer to you.
Your loving husband,
Thomas
November 11, 1918
My Margaret,
Today the guns finally fell silent.
No thunder. No shouting. Just the wind moving across the fields.
Men stood there staring at one another like they had forgotten how to exist without the noise.
I do not know how long it will take before I can return home.
But for the first time in years, the road back to you exists again.
And I will follow it.
With all the love I carried through this war,
Thomas