The days after James's departure fell into a rhythm that felt both familiar and hollow. The field hospital carried on — stretchers, cries, orders, prayers — but for Elena, something had changed. There was an empty space in the ward where his quiet humor had once lived, and she caught herself glancing toward the cot he used to occupy.
The war moved restlessly forward. Reports came daily — towns lost, regained, lost again. The nurses worked without pause, their hands blistered from constant washing and stitching. Yet every night, when the lamps were dimmed, Elena would sit by her small table and glance toward the flap of the tent, half-hoping that someone would walk through carrying a letter with her name on it.
It was on the seventh night when it happened.
A messenger entered, dropping a bundle of folded envelopes onto the supply table. Elena barely noticed until one of the nurses, Yvette, called softly, "Elena! This one's for you.
Her heart jumped. She took the letter with trembling fingers, her name written in strong, neat script across the front:
"To Nurse Elena Moreau, Normandy Field Hospital."
She turned it over once, twice, then sat on her cot and broke the seal.
My dear Nurse Moreau,
I promised I would write, and for once, I intend to keep my word. We've set up camp somewhere east of Caen. The rain hasn't stopped, and mud is our constant companion. Still, I think of the hospital often — of the quiet hum of your voice among the chaos, and how it somehow made the world less cruel.
You asked once if I believed in luck. I told you I did not. But I believe now that meeting you was something close to it — perhaps not luck, but grace.
If you're reading this, it means I survived another day. And for that, I'm grateful — if only because it means I can write to you again tomorrow.
Yours, always,
— James Whitaker
Elena read it three times, each word sinking deeper. For the first time in months, she smiled without forcing herself to. Around her, the sounds of war seemed distant, softened by the echo of his voice in her mind.
She reached for her pen and a small sheet of paper. Her handwriting trembled, but her words flowed as though they had been waiting.
Lieutenant Whitaker,
Your letter reached me on a night when I had forgotten what kindness felt like. You must not know how much strength words can carry — especially yours.
We are still here. The wounded keep coming, and I keep wondering how such a world continues to spin. But your letter reminded me that not everything has fallen apart.
I hope the rain lets up soon, though something tells me you'd find poetry in it. I shall write again when I can. Until then, keep believing in grace.
— Elena Moreau
When she folded the letter, her heart beat differently — steadier, fuller. She placed it in an envelope and handed it to the courier with a soft prayer that it might reach him.
Weeks passed, and so did letters.
Their words became a lifeline — a world apart from gunfire and orders. They wrote about books, about the smell of home, about things they missed and things they dreamed of. In every line, they drew closer — though miles of danger still lay between them.
At night, Elena would reread James's letters until she could almost hear his voice in the flicker of her lantern.
Sometimes she caught herself whispering his name into the quiet. And though no one answered, she always felt as if the air itself listened.
"Perhaps love does not need the touch of hands," she wrote in her journal.
"Perhaps it only needs the courage to speak through the heart — and hope that somewhere, someone is listening."