By the time you read this, I may already be standing on the battlefield, my rifle in hand, staring into the fog of war. Tomorrow, we push forward. They say it will be the fiercest stand yet—an attempt to break the enemy’s hold on this godforsaken land. And if I am to be honest with you, love, I do not know if I shall return.
I’ve seen what happens when men step over that trench. I have heard the screams, seen the unrecognizable faces of those who once laughed beside me. I have held dying hands in mine, whispering words of comfort, lying to them that everything will be alright. But I have never had to prepare myself for the moment when it might be me. Until now.
I do not write this letter to bring you sorrow, my love, only to tell you that you have made my life worth living. Every morning, before the sun rises over this battlefield, I close my eyes and picture you—your auburn hair glowing in the light of our cottage window, your hands kneading dough at the kitchen table, your laughter filling the empty spaces of my heart. If I close my eyes long enough, I can almost hear it now.
Should I fall, know that I do so thinking of you, of the life we built, however brief it may have been. And should I return, it will be for you and only you.
Yours, always, Tom
Letter 2: Eleanor to Tom (With the Locket)
March 20, 1917 Whitmore Cottage, Yorkshire
My darling Tom,
Your letter reached me today, and I have read it so many times that I fear the ink will soon fade from my fingertips. My love, how can you speak of not returning? Do you not know that you are my heart? That every beat it takes is because of you?
I have enclosed a locket with this letter—inside, a picture of us on the day we wed. Do you remember how the rain came just as we stepped out of the church, and how we laughed, soaked to the bone, as if nothing else in the world mattered? Keep this with you, my love. Let it rest against your heart, and know that mine beats with yours.
I will not say goodbye, for I refuse to believe in such things. Instead, I will say: come home, Tom. Come home to me.
Yours in love, Eleanor
Letter 3: Tom to Eleanor (Before He Sends the Messenger Boy)
March 25, 1917 Somewhere near Arras, France
My dearest Eleanor,
This is not the letter I wished to write to you, but fate is cruel and has left me no choice. We marched forward at dawn, and by nightfall, nearly all my brothers-in-arms lay still in the mud. Our platoon is lost, Eleanor. I am lost.
A shell blast caught me in the trench, and my legs—God, I cannot feel them. There is no pain now, only the heavy weight of knowing that I will not see another sunrise. The medic whispered something about holding on, but I see the truth in his eyes. There is no holding on, not for me.
And yet, I am not afraid. You have loved me so fiercely that I cannot regret a single moment of my life. I only wish for more time—more days to hold you, more nights to trace the freckles on your skin, more moments to press my lips to yours and breathe you in.
But since time is not mine to bargain with, I leave you with this: I have loved you, Eleanor Whitmore, with every ounce of my soul, and if there is anything beyond this life, I will find you there.
I am entrusting this letter to young Daniel, our messenger boy. He is swift, and I pray he reaches you before the week is out. Do not grieve long for me, my love. You must go on. You must be happy.
Forever yours, Tom
Letter 4: Eleanor to Tom (Never Delivered)
March 30, 1917 Whitmore Cottage, Yorkshire
My dearest Tom,
I have read your letter, and though my tears stain this page, my heart refuses to believe you are truly gone. Do you not know, my love, that you must fight? That you must stay? For there is something I have yet to tell you—something that I had meant to write before, but fear kept my hand from the page.
I am with child, Tom. Our child.
I had wanted to wait until you were home, to tell you as you held me in your arms, to watch the joy light up your face. But now I must tell you like this, on ink and paper, praying to God that this letter reaches you in time.
So you must fight, my love. You must come back. Not just for me, but for the little life growing within me. Your son, your daughter—whichever they may be, they need their father.
Come back, Tom. Come home.
With all my love, Eleanor
Tom Reads Eleanor’s Previous Letter
Tom lay in the trench, his breath shallow, the locket resting against his chest, its chain tangled in his mud-soaked uniform. His fingers felt numb, his vision blurred, but he knew this was the end.
Backup had arrived, but it was too late. Too late for him.
He reached for the last letter he had received from Eleanor—the one that had traveled with him through every battle, through every moment of despair. As he clutched it, the parchment slipped from his weakened grip, fluttering to the ground.
And that was when he saw it.
There was more writing on the back.
His heart pounded weakly as he forced his fingers to move, to turn the paper over.
"I am with child, Tom. Our child."
The words struck him like lightning, sending a surge of something—hope, will, desperation—through his battered body. His child. His and Eleanor’s. Waiting for him.
No. He could not die. Not now. Not when he had something to live for.
With the last of his strength, he dragged himself forward, clawing at the dirt, at the shattered remains of his trench. His body screamed in agony, but his heart pounded with one thought: Live. Live for her. Live for them.
Somewhere ahead, the reinforcements were coming. If he could just reach them… if he could just hold on a little longer…
And so, with Eleanor’s words burning in his mind, Tom crawled forward, towards life, towards home.
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