The Exchange of Letters

Letter I: From Julien to Marie

Somewhere in the Trenches, Northern France – February 12th, 1916

My Dearest Marie,

As I sit here beneath the shadow of war, penning these words by the flickering light of a candle stub, my thoughts drift endlessly to you. The cold bites at my fingers, and the distant rumble of artillery echoes like thunder, but none of it can drown out the sound of your laughter or the warmth of your embrace as I remember them.

It has been six months since I left our little village, and though time moves slowly here amidst the mud and chaos, it feels as if years have passed since I last held you in my arms. Every letter from you is a lifeline—a fragile thread connecting me to the life we once shared, to the future I pray we will one day reclaim.

I think often of our mornings together, when the sun would spill golden light across the fields, and you would hum softly as you worked in the garden. Those memories sustain me on the darkest nights, when fear threatens to overwhelm me. Do you recall how we used to dream of traveling beyond France, of seeing the world? Now, all I wish for is to return home—to see your face again, to feel the earth beneath our feet without the tremor of shells.

Marie, please do not worry for me. Though this place tests even the strongest among us, I draw courage from knowing that somewhere far away, you are waiting. Your love is my shield, your hope my beacon. One day, this nightmare will end, and I will come back to you. Until then, take care of yourself—and never doubt how deeply you are loved.

With all my heart,

Julien

Letter II: From Marie to Julien

Villers-Bretonneux, France – February 20th, 1916

My Beloved Julien,

Your letter arrived yesterday, carried through rain and snow to reach me. It felt like holding a piece of you in my hands, and I read it over and over until the ink began to blur—not from tears, though they came later, but from wear. Each word you write fills me with both joy and sorrow, for while your voice brings comfort, it also reminds me of how cruelly fate has torn us apart.

Life here continues, though it feels hollow without you. The market square is quieter now, and many of the shops stand empty. Some days, I walk past the café where we used to sit, imagining I can still hear your voice rising above the chatter. The lilac bush you planted in the spring before you left has begun to bud early this year—a small miracle, perhaps, or a sign that even in hardship, beauty persists.

Oh, Julien, how I long for the simplicity of those days! To wake beside you, to share meals and stories, to argue over whose turn it was to fetch water from the well—such ordinary moments seem impossibly precious now. Sometimes, I wonder if we truly understood their value then, or if it takes loss to teach us what matters most.

You ask me not to worry, but how can I help it? Still, I try to be brave, for your sake. I sew bandages for the hospital, bake bread for the soldiers passing through, and tend to the children whose fathers have not yet returned. These tasks give me purpose, but nothing compares to the ache of missing you.

Promise me something, Julien: no matter how dark things become, hold tight to the thought of us. Hold tight to the promise of home. For I am waiting, always waiting, and my heart beats only for you.

Yours eternally,

Marie

Letter III: From Julien to Marie

In the Trenches, March 5th, 1916

Dearest Marie,

Your letter reached me today, and though it brought tears to my eyes, it also gave me strength. You speak of bravery, but it is you who shows true courage, carrying on despite the uncertainty, despite the pain. If anyone deserves praise, it is you—for enduring, for persevering, for loving so fiercely across the miles.

The lilacs blooming early—it is a sign, I am certain of it. A reminder that even in the bleakest winter, life finds a way to flourish. Just as those buds push through the frost, so too does my hope refuse to die. Hope for peace, for reunion, for the chance to build a new life together when this madness ends.

Today, during a rare moment of quiet, I sketched a picture of our house as I imagine it will look when I return. Smoke curling from the chimney, flowers spilling from window boxes, and you standing in the doorway, smiling as you welcome me home. It may seem foolish to dream of such things amidst the horrors of war, but those dreams keep me going. They remind me why I fight—not for glory or honor, but for the chance to hold you close once more.

Do not tire of writing to me, Marie. Your letters are my greatest treasure, more valuable than gold or jewels. They remind me that there is still goodness in the world, still love worth fighting for. And when I grow weary, I reread your words and find the resolve to carry on.

Soon, my love. Soon. That is the promise I make to you now.

Forever yours,

Julien

Letter IV: From Marie to Julien

Villers-Bretonneux, March 14th, 1916

My Darling Julien,

Another week has passed, and though I cling to the hope that each day brings us closer to peace, the weight of waiting grows heavier. Yet your letters continue to lift me, to remind me that love endures even in the face of despair.

I showed your sketch of the house to Madame Dupont, who smiled and said it looked just like the home of someone who knows happiness. How right she is! For wherever you are, Julien, there is happiness—even in the smallest things. Yesterday, I found a robin nesting in the lilac bush, its feathers bright against the gray sky. I named it after you, for it reminded me of your resilience, your ability to find light in darkness.

Sometimes, late at night, I lie awake and whisper prayers into the silence. Prayers for your safety, for the war to end, for the day when I can run to you and never let go. Other times, I simply talk to you, telling you about my day, sharing secrets I’ve saved up to tell you in person. Does it sound strange to say I feel closer to you when I do this? As if, somehow, my words might reach you across the distance.

Please, my love, take care of yourself. Eat whatever food you can find, rest whenever possible, and trust that I am counting down the days until we are reunited. No matter how long it takes, I will wait for you. My heart belongs to you, now and always.

With all my love,

Marie

Letter V: From Julien to Marie

In the Trenches, March 28th, 1916

My Dearest Marie,

Your last letter brought me such comfort that I carried it tucked close to my heart for days. The thought of you naming a robin after me made me smile—a small spark of joy in an otherwise bleak existence. How I wish I could see that bird, perched among the lilacs you tend with such care. It must be as brave and beautiful as you are.

These past weeks have been difficult. The fighting has intensified, and the nights are filled with the cries of the wounded and dying. Yet even in the midst of this chaos, your voice remains a sanctuary. When I read your words, I can almost forget where I am—for a moment, I am back home, sitting by the fire with you, listening to the rain patter against the roof.

Marie, I want you to know something: no matter what happens, you must never blame yourself for worrying about me. Your concern is not a burden—it is proof of your love, and it gives me strength when I need it most. Please do not fear for my safety more than you already do. Instead, focus on taking care of yourself. You are my reason to keep going, and if anything were to happen to you, I would have no will left to fight.

I dream of the day when we will sit together again, side by side, watching the sunset paint the sky in colors too vivid for any artist’s brush. Until then, hold fast to hope, just as I hold fast to the memory of you.

Yours always,

Julien

Letter VI: From Marie to Julien

Villers-Bretonneux, April 5th, 1916

Beloved Julien,

Your letter arrived yesterday, and though it brought me some measure of peace, I cannot shake the unease that lingers in my chest. You speak of the fighting growing worse, and though you try to reassure me, I sense the weariness behind your words. Oh, my love, how I long to shield you from all harm! But alas, I am powerless here, unable to ease your suffering or share your burdens.

Do not tell me not to worry, for it is impossible not to. Each knock at the door sends my heart racing, fearing news I cannot bear to hear. And yet, I remind myself daily of your courage, of the promise you made to come home to me. That promise is my anchor, keeping me steady when despair threatens to pull me under.

Yesterday, I planted daisies near the lilac bush. They reminded me of the fields around our village—the ones we used to walk through hand in hand. As I worked, I whispered prayers into the soil, asking for your safe return. Perhaps they will grow tall and strong, like the love between us, enduring whatever storms may come.

Please, Julien, write to me whenever you can. Even a single line is enough to let me know you are still alive, still holding on. Do not think of sparing me pain by staying silent—I would rather face a thousand fears than endure the silence of uncertainty.

With all my love and prayers,

Marie

Letter VII: From Marie to Julien (Unanswered)

Villers-Bretonneux, April 20th, 1916

My Dearest Julien,

It has been two weeks since your last letter, and each passing day feels heavier than the last. I try to convince myself that the delay is due to the mail being slow, or perhaps the chaos of battle interrupting communication. But deep down, a shadow of dread creeps into my thoughts, whispering fears I dare not name.

I spend my evenings staring out the window, hoping to see a postman approaching with news of you. My hands tremble as I open every envelope, praying it bears your familiar handwriting. Yet none have come. The silence is unbearable, Julien. It stretches endlessly, filling the spaces between us with questions I cannot answer.

Are you safe? Are you well? Do you still think of me, as I think of you? Or has the war stolen even that from us? I cling to the hope that you are simply too busy to write, but the doubt gnaws at me, relentless and cruel.

At night, I lie awake imagining the worst—that you are hurt, or worse, that you are gone. Then I scold myself for such thoughts, reminding myself of your strength, your determination to return to me. But oh, Julien, how much longer must I wait? How much more must my heart endure before I see you again?

If only I could trade places with you, take on your hardships so that you might rest. If only I could wrap my arms around you and shield you from the horrors of this war. But I am trapped here, helpless, while you face dangers I cannot fathom.

Please, my love, if you can, send me even a few words. Let me know you are alive, that you are fighting not just for France, but for us—for the life we dreamed of building together. Without that reassurance, I fear I may break.

Forever waiting,

Marie

Letter VIII: From Marie to Julien (Still Unanswered)

Villers-Bretonneux, May 3rd, 1916

Julien, My Heart,

Another week has passed without word from you, and the silence grows louder with each sunrise. I feel as though I am standing on the edge of a precipice, teetering between hope and despair. Every sound outside makes me jump, every unfamiliar face fills me with dread.

I went to church today, lighting a candle for you as I always do. The priest spoke of faith and perseverance, urging us to trust in God’s plan. But how can I trust when my heart feels so fragile, when the absence of your letters leaves me questioning everything?

The lilac bush is blooming now, its fragrance sweet and heavy in the spring air. The daisies I planted have begun to sprout, tiny green shoots pushing their way toward the light. They remind me of you—resilient, determined, full of life. But even flowers cannot ease the ache of missing you.

Sometimes, I wonder if you are avoiding writing because you fear causing me pain. If that is true, please know this: your silence hurts far more than any truth ever could. I would rather face the harshest reality than live in uncertainty. So I beg you, Julien, if you are able, write to me. Tell me anything—just let me know you are still with me, even if only in spirit.

Each day without you feels like a lifetime, and I am beginning to lose count of how many lifetimes I have lived since your last letter. Yet I refuse to give up hope entirely. Somewhere, somehow, I believe you are still fighting—for me, for us, for the future we promised each other.

Come back to me, Julien. Come back to the fields of daisies and lilacs, to the quiet village where your name is whispered in every prayer. Come back to me, and I will spend the rest of my days making sure you never regret it.

With a heart breaking but unyielding,

Marie

Letter IX: From Marie to Julien (Final Letter)

Villers-Bretonneux, May 15th, 1916

Julien,

Today, I received official notice from the army. They told me you were reported missing in action over a month ago. Missing—not dead, they said, but the emptiness in their voices spoke louder than their words.

How am I supposed to go on, Julien? How am I supposed to wake each morning knowing that I may never see you again, never hear your laugh, never feel your arms around me? The world feels colder now, dimmer, as if the sun itself refuses to shine without you.

I visited the lilac bush today. Its blooms are fading, their petals falling softly to the ground like tears. The daisies stand tall, defiant against the wind, but even they seem lonely without you here to admire them. I sat beneath the tree for hours, clutching your last letter to my chest, willing myself to believe that somewhere, somehow, you are still alive.

But if fate has taken you from me, then I will carry your memory in my heart forever. You were my first love, my greatest love, and no amount of time or distance could ever change that. Wherever you are, Julien, know that I loved you with every fiber of my being—and that I always will.

Goodbye, my dearest. Until we meet again, in this life or the next.

Eternally yours,

Marie