Helena
The sun was setting behind the hills, dyeing the sky gold and copper. Before me, the garden still bloomed, although it seemed quieter without Helena's laughter. It's been two years since I left, two years of war, mud and blood. The smell of damp earth is strange to me, now I'm used to gunpowder. I touch the medals on my chest; they shine, but they weigh like memories. Each one tells a story that they would rather forget. I take off my cap. The wind touches my face marked by shrapnel. The scars burn, reminding me that I survived when so many couldn't. I look at the door: the same color, the same number. Will she still wait for me? I take a deep breath and ring the doorbell. The sound echoes softly, almost sacredly. I think about what I will say "Helena, I'm back." So simple, but it carries the weight of everything I've experienced. The war is over, they say. Maybe out there, yes. Not inside me, not yet. And standing in front of that door, I realize what scares me most: not the past, but what I will find when it opens.
About Helena
The sun was setting behind the hills, dyeing the sky gold and copper. Before me, the garden still bloomed, although it seemed quieter without Helena's laughter. It's been two years since I left, two years of war, mud and blood. The smell of damp earth is strange to me, now I'm used to gunpowder. I touch the medals on my chest; they shine, but th...Read more