Whispers Beneath the Oak

July 15, 1917

London, England

My dearest Thomas,

The days feel empty without you. London moves forward as if nothing has changed, but I feel the absence of you in every step I take. The markets are bustling, the parks are filled with laughter, and yet, my world is quieter now.

I visited our oak tree today. I ran my fingers over the letters you carved out ( T + E, 1915 ) as if touching them would bring you closer. Do you remember how we sat beneath its branches last summer, dreaming of the life we would build? You told me you would return before the year was out, that nothing, not even war, could keep us apart.

I hold on to that promise.

I send my love with this letter and a piece of my heart with every word. Write to me, my darling. Tell me you are well.

Ever yours,

Eleanor

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August 3, 1917

Somewhere in France

My dearest Eleanor,

The war is nothing like they told us it would be. There is no glory here, only mud, death and the ceaseless thunder of artillery. The air smells of damp earth and gunpowder, and the trenches are filled with rats larger than my hands.

But in the darkest hours, when the night is still, I think of you. I see your face as clearly as if you were standing before me, your blue dress swaying in the summer breeze. Do you remember the night before I left? You held my hand so tightly I thought you might never let go. I wish you hadn’t.

I received your letter today. I pressed it to my lips before reading, hoping some part of you still lingers in the ink. The oak tree—how I long to be there with you. I close my eyes and picture us sitting beneath its branches, my fingers tracing the curve of your cheek.

Tomorrow, we march forward. The officers tell us we are making progress, but I wonder if they truly believe it. If I do not write for a while, know that I am fighting to return to you.

Pray for me, my love.

Yours forever,

Thomas

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September 1, 1917

London, England

My dearest Thomas,

I wake each morning and reach for you before remembering that you are not here. The bed is too large without you, the house too quiet. I wear your locket every day, pressing it to my heart when I miss you most.

The newspapers report victories, but the streets tell a different story. Women in black stand at their doors, telegrams clutched in trembling hands. I pass them quickly, whispering prayers under my breath. I tell myself I will never be one of them. You will return. You must.

Your mother and I knit socks for the soldiers. Each stitch feels like a thread of hope, a way to keep you warm across the miles. She hides her fear well, but when she thinks I am not looking, I see the glistening in her eyes. We both hold our breath, waiting for your next letter.

Write soon, my love. I do not know how long I can bear the silence.

Ever yours,

Eleanor

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September 18, 1917

Somewhere in France

My dearest Eleanor,

I had a dream last night that I was home. I could hear the birds chirping in the morning light, feel the warmth of the sun on my face. You stood before me in the garden, smiling, your dress fluttering in the breeze. I reached for you, but as soon as my fingers touched yours, the sound of gunfire shattered the moment. I woke up to the cold, to the stink of war, to the reality that I am still here, and you are still far away.

It is raining again. The mud has swallowed our boots, the trenches collapsing under the weight of water and death. Yesterday, we lost James. He was beside me when the shell hit. One moment, he was laughing about a letter from his wife, and the next—he was gone. I tell myself he felt no pain, but I do not know if that is true.

Do not be frightened, my love. I am still here. I am still fighting to return to you. I close my eyes and picture our oak tree, the promise we made beneath its branches. Hold on to it, Eleanor. Hold on to me.

Yours always,

Thomas

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October 2, 1917

Somewhere in France

My dearest Eleanor,

This may be my last letter. Tomorrow at dawn, we advance. They say this battle will turn the tide of war, but I have seen too many battles, and the tide only seems to bring more bodies to shore.

I have written you a hundred letters in my mind, but none of them say what I truly need to. If fate is cruel and I do not return, I need you to know this—I have loved you with every breath, every heartbeat.

Do not grieve me for too long, my love. Live. Laugh. Find joy in the world, even if I cannot be there to share it with you. And if you ever doubt that I am still with you, go to the oak tree. Run your fingers over our names. Close your eyes. You will find me there.

Ever yours,

Thomas

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October 15, 1917

London, England

My dearest Thomas,

Why have you not written? The post arrived today, and again, there was nothing for me. I tell myself it is simply delayed, that the war has made everything slower. But my heart is restless.

I went to the oak tree today, tracing the letters of our names. The wind was cold, but I refused to leave until I felt something—some sign that you are still there, still thinking of me. I whispered your name into the wind, hoping it would reach you across the miles.

Please, my love, tell me you are safe. Tell me you are coming home.

Ever yours,

Eleanor

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November 1, 1917

London, England

The telegram arrived this morning.

"With deepest regret, we inform you… missing in action… presumed fallen in battle…"

I do not remember what happened after. The world blurred, my hands trembled, and my breath came in ragged gasps. Missing. Not dead. Not yet.

I refuse to believe it. You promised me, Thomas. You promised you would return.

I went to the oak tree again today. The sky was empty, the wind hollow. I traced your name one last time, pressing my forehead to the bark. If this is goodbye, my love, then let it be known—I was yours until my last breath.

Ever yours,

Eleanor

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Final Note (Years Later, 1925)

Eleanor never remarried. Every year, on the anniversary of his last letter, she walked to the oak tree, fingers tracing their carved initials. She would sit beneath its branches, whispering Thomas’s name into the wind.

One evening, she received a letter—an old, tattered envelope from a fellow soldier.

"Thomas had not died in the trenches. He had been wounded, captured, taken to a distant land. He had died in a foreign country, far from the home he longed to return to."

Eleanor read the letter by candlelight, her fingers trembling. She did not cry. She simply placed it inside her locket, alongside the lock of his hair.

And every year, until her final breath, she returned to the oak tree.