The haversack slung over his shoulder, is heavy. He turns around but doesn’t see anyone else get off the train.Some people are standing around the platform, waving and looking sad. Probably family members saying goodbye. This is a tiny station. Few people ever return. Farewell, never a welcome home. The sign announcing the town’s name hangs rusted and motionless. He turns back. A smiling woman walks past, but she doesn’t notice him. She gets on the train without glancing back, takes a seat, and shuts the window tightly.

He finds a seat on the bench in front of the station building. The bench was red long ago, but years of sun and neglect have bleached it to pale pink, flaking in chunks. It is dusk, almost dark, but he remains seated until the departing train’s whistle fades away. He gets up, takes the bag, and walks around the building to where the dusty main road stretches into town.

It is winter. The cold is fierce enough to break bones, but he hardly feels it. Night falls quickly around here. All the curtains in the houses he walks past are drawn tightly against the dark and the cold; only dim figures are visible inside, floating from window to window. He walks on. When he gets to the crossroads, he turns right. This street is narrower, and the houses are set farther apart.

The gravel under his boots crunches loudly, and for a moment, he is reminded of a thousand other boots marching down another road. Left, right, left, right, far from here. Behind him, somewhere, a broken moon is the only light. His shadow stretches long and thin in front of him. The same moon. A lifetime ago. He senses the ground changing beneath his feet. Less gravel, but dustier, dark, and dry like old blood.

He slows his pace when he spots the sycamore tree guarding the rickety gate at the end of the street. Just before he reaches out to touch the bark, he puts his hand in his pocket, not because of the cold but because of the memories. No time for that now. Later, maybe.

The gate, unfamiliar with the movement, screeches when he pushes it open. His feet carry him over the sparse lawn around the house to the back door. He pauses, puts the haversack on the ground, and holds his breath. He can hear the radio. Voices. He suddenly feels frozen. His legs are rigid as he climbs the six steps that lead to the wooden door. He puts his hand out to knock, knuckles white. The world’s war is over. His has only just begun.