That night, as he sat with the photograph in his hands, the news replayed in his mind.
It gave him something he hadn’t felt in a while.
Light.
Out here, hope was a powerful thing. It wasn’t loud or obvious—it lived in small moments. In letters. In memories. In photographs carried close to the heart.
John leaned back slightly, looking up at the vast night sky. Stars stretched endlessly above him, brighter than he’d ever seen back home.
He wondered if his wife was looking at the same sky.
If, somehow, they were connected in that quiet way.
“Just a little longer,” he said under his breath.
Because that’s what every soldier tells themselves.
Just a little longer until the next call.
Just a little longer until the next letter.
Just a little longer until home.
