I will find you again

Verdun, France – 1940

My Dearest Muriel,

The candle burns low while the moon rises higher above. Soon, it will be full, gazing down at me as I gaze up at it, as if I can draw from its light the strength to care more - about my choices, about our love, about the hope that I will return to you soon. To love you again. To never let you feel this emptiness again. I know you understand, for I feel it too.

I confess the void inside me. Why did I leave something so perfect - our love - for something so destructive and terrible? In a few minutes, I must march again, through the mud. It clings heavy to my boots, as if it doesn’t want me to stray any farther from you. If only the ground would freeze, it might make it easier, but then I would be stuck. Will I survive, or will I die here? I dream of such things too often. Will they perish, or will they succeed- just as I wonder if I will fail or find my way back to you?

The fields here are no longer places to play or rest beneath the sun. They are only graves, waiting to be filled with bodies weighed down by regret. The safest home is a bed. Or your arms. I would rather be a prisoner of your embrace than play this deadly game of hide-and-seek with enemies. The sky is thick with smoke, the earth trembles beneath our feet, and yet - through it all - I see you.

You are my star, guiding me through this madness.

I see you in the quiet moments, when the night is still, and the stars look down like your watchful eyes. I sigh, and the wind whispers sweet kisses against my skin. I grieve, and the cold seals my sorrow in frost, a soft covering - like an invisible shield to protect me. I tell myself it is your touch, your presence watching over me, marking me with your love. A stamp upon my soul, keeping me safe.

I am ready to leave at any time. Because I am yours.

Forever ours.

That is what I will shout when I return home to you - to us. Or perhaps I should shout it now, for all to hear. I fight not just for victory on the battlefield but for the war within me - the war that pulled me away from you. How ridiculous and foolish. How fearless and brave. Perhaps that is the ultimate triumph: to show my face, to call your name, to find my way back home. To win.

To conquer my demons and embrace them as friends. To see my enemies as brothers. To reclaim my life from death’s grasp.

And it is you - only you - who pushes me through.

All must know: love wins. Love has always been the only real victory.

We play games. We fight wars. And then we return to our mothers, our sisters… or our wives. What does war mean, then? Do we hurt each other just to realize what we are most afraid to lose? I suppose it is the peace of mind I left with you. The peace you helped create within me. And yet, I cast it aside - for strangers, for my so-called brothers in foreign lands. How does that make sense?

How can I have five senses, yet none seem to work properly - except when I think of you? I feel you in the wind that carries the scent of lavender, like the fields we ran through as children. I hear you in my heartbeat, steady and strong, the only rhythm anchoring me to this world.

O Muriel, I have written you a thousand letters, though I do not know if a single one has reached you. I hope. I imagine them lost in the mud. What a fool I am. War rages not only on the battlefield but in my heart, tearing me apart as I long for my words to reach you. Have my letters drowned in the rain? Have they burned in the fires of war?

And yet, I write. I hope. I pray. I believe.

Because if I stop, I fear I will disappear altogether.

Will I turn the moon and see you again?

I promised I would return. I swore that this war would not take me, that I would come back and build you the home we dreamed of - the one you deserve. But I must tell you the truth I cannot escape.

My love, I am afraid. Afraid I will not be the man you remember. Afraid I will not return at all.

But even if I fall here, even if the earth claims my body, I will find you again. The stars shall guide me. The moon shall be your light. I will smile at it, and it shall reflect my love for you.

Perhaps in another time, in another life, I will see you walking down a street, and my soul will recognize you. Perhaps I will hear your laughter in a crowded room and know - instinctively - that it belongs to the woman I once loved and always will. I will remember you. All of you.

And when that moment comes - no matter the year, no matter the place - I will cross any distance to be by your side again.

Then I will be your forever man.

I will never leave love behind again.

I must have been blind. I must have been driven by rage, fighting not to lose you to war - but only to lose myself instead. I thought leaving to keep the enemy far from you was the right choice, so you could live in peace. So you would not die in agony.

Wait for me, Muriel.

Not in this life, but in the next.

Always yours,

Étienne

•••

Paris, France – 1943

Muriel clutches an old, yellowed envelope to her chest as the sirens wail outside. The letter is worn at the edges, the ink slightly faded, but she does not need to read it again - she has memorized every word.

It arrived three years too late.

By then, she had already stood at the edge of a grave marked only with Étienne’s name and the year he was taken from her. The war had ended, but her heart had never known peace.

She searched for him in every shadow, in every soldier’s face, in every dream where she still heard his voice. And now, another war rages outside her window, history repeating itself, threatening to steal what little of him she has left.

Tears slip down her cheeks as she presses the letter to her lips.

"Perhaps in another time, in another life, I will see you walking down a street, and my soul will recognize you."

She closes her eyes.

Find me, Étienne. Find me again.

The bombs fall.

•••

New York City – 2025

The bookstore smells of ink and dust, the scent of stories waiting to be discovered. He isn’t sure why he’s here—only that something led him through the doors.

As he browses, his fingers brush against an old, forgotten book tucked between new bestsellers. The cover is cracked leather, the title barely legible. Letters of the Lost.

He opens it.

The first page is a letter, handwritten in elegant script, signed with a name that sends a shiver down his spine.

Always, Étienne.

His breath catches. The name feels familiar, though he doesn’t know why. His heart beats faster—an echo of something long buried.

And then, a soft voice behind him.

"Excuse me," she says.

When he turns, his world stops.

Her eyes are the color of a past he cannot remember. Her face - a painting he has never seen, yet somehow knows by heart. She looks at him as though she, too, has spent lifetimes searching.

Neither of them speak. They don’t have to.

Somewhere, a promise has been kept.

And as they shake hands, something clicks into place - like a key finding its lock.

Love, once lost to war, has finally found its way home.

This time - this time - they will not lose each other again.

And when their daughter is born, they name her Celeste: a tribute to the heavens that guided them back to each other. A promise that love, no matter how long lost, will always find its way back home.

@WARWARA GOTLIBOVNA, 2025. All rights reserved.