Through the gloom she found their spot where the flowers bloomed in the sunshine that sneaked through the gap in the tree canopy above.

The ground was damp but she gave it no mind as she lay down in the wild grass. The sun warmed her face and arms, spring was in the air once again.

Another year without him, another year waiting for him to come home. She laughed at the old saying as it passed through her mind again: ‘They’ll be home by Christmas.’ Now that had become a joke in itself, used in irony when something was taking longer than it should have. But the talk in the papers and in the pubs was of the end coming soon. It had been four years, the Boche were on the verge of collapse.

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