Alfie sat with his back against the cold mud of the trench, letting the damp ooze through his shirt. Anything to remind him he was alive after the endless barrages they had been under for weeks. He was numb from the inside most days. It was the only way to get through it.

"Post," a voice called out and Alfie was surprised when he felt an envelope fall onto his lap.

He rarely got post. There was no one back home to send him any. Occasionally his mother's cousin, a now frail old woman, would try with her arthritis ridden hands to pen him something.

Glancing down, he realised it wasn't addressed to him, and his surprised turned into disappointment. With a sigh, he went to find the rightful recipient.

Sergeant James 'Jim' Davies. He was in Alfie's unit and was a young lad of only about twenty something; brown haired and blue eyed. He was quiet yet there was a courage in him that some of the older men lacked, which was how he had come to be promoted rapidly through the ranks.

"Alright Jim?" Alfie sat down beside him. "Got summit what belongs to you here, mate."

Jim smiled warmly upon seeing the familiar scrawl. "It's from my sister. She writes every week, bless her."

"Yeah?" Alfie nodded, picking at dirt from under his nail. "Well that's nice, innit? Three sisters you got aint ya?"

"That's right," Jim rolled his eyes. "Like little witches the lot of them, but I don't half miss listening to them all bickering and midering."

"They all younger than you?"

"Louise is sixteen, Molly's five and Cara is nineteen," Jim nodded, unfolding the letter.

Alfie lit a cigarette (he much preferred to smoke a pipe but pipe tobacco was hard to come by out here) and smoked it patiently while Jim read his sister's letter.

"She's a right one, my Cara," Jim chuckled when he was finished. "She's the only person I know who manages to convey her personality on paper without it coming over flat. Do you want a read?"

Alfie's first thought was to politely refuse. After all, why did he want to read a letter from a bird he didn't even know? But there was something about the delicately swirling letters that called to him.

Dear Jim,

How are you? What a stupid question, I know. It's hardly like you're having the time of your life over there. Although (and I can't believe I'm about to say this) but I hope you're having it off with as many of those French girls as you can, because you deserve some sort of fun when you can get it. I don't even know if you're in France but let's face it, French girls are renowned for being beautiful. And also France is the romance capital of the world- or so I'm told. Not that you're declaring your love to many of them I should imagine. A quick wham, bam, thank you, ma'am sort of situation instead, yeah? Great, and now my mind is filled with the most horrific images that I'm certain will haunt my mind for the rest of time. Also, under no circumstances are you to tell Mum that I encouraged the idea of you sewing your wild oats with a load of girls. She would end up thinking worse of me than she would you.

I know you can't tell me much about where exactly you are, so I thought I'd tell you a little about home. Everything's pretty much the same. Molly is going to school every day and she can write her own name now. I told her it won't be long before she's writing you letters of her own. But until then, you'll find a little drawing from her on the back of this letter. It may look like something a little rude, but I assure you it's supposed to be a candle. She was worried you wouldn't like it in the dark so the candle was to bring you light. (Who knows what goes on in the mind of a six year old?)

Louise has been sneaking around with young Marcus Mullen. Mum caught them kissing in the ginnel at the back of the house the other day and Louise couldn't sit down for two full days when Mum was done with her. What Mum doesn't know is that I caught Marcus with his hand up Louise's skirt the day before and gave them both a crack around the head. According to Louise, it's love. Fucking love! They're sixteen. What do either of them know about love? If she's not careful, she'll be lumped with a sprog before either one of them knows what's happened, and I wonder if it'll be fucking love then? It's a good job Dad isn't here otherwise he would wring both their necks.

Speaking of Dad, we got a letter from him yesterday. He's in a field hospital. He's wounded but it's nothing serious. I thought poor Mum was going to faint. But once Molly saw her almost in tears, she pulled herself together.

As for me; well let's face it, I know I'm your favourite sister and therefore the only one you really want to hear about. Don't pull that face. And don't act like you don't know what I mean. Anyway, my life is about as dull as ever. The dressmakers is quiet. Surprisingly enough people aren't interested in having new dresses made when there's a war on. Although, crabby old Mrs Layton from up the street did come to have one made for her grandson's christening and I kid you not, I think I'm traumatised for life. I sent her to the changing room so I could measure her up and when I went in there with my tape measure, she was naked as the day she was born (well, apart from her knickers. Although they were so big they could have easily fit three of me in and were more reminiscent of a tent than knickers). I swear to you, if my boobs ever get to the stage where they hang around my mid section, can you please have me put down? Or at least remind me to invest in some decent brassieres?

On that pleasant note, I'd better get going. I can hear Mum and Louise arguing downstairs about God knows what. I think I should intervene before one of them goes to jail for murdering the other.

Anyway, look after yourself. I miss you like mad. Never thought I'd say that to you, did you? But it's true. I miss the sound of your snoring through the bedroom wall, and I even miss you using all the hot water (well, no, that's a downright lie actually). Truthfully though, keep safe. I love you always.

Cara.

Alfie hadn't realised he was smiling as he read. She was funny this girl. It felt as though she had stuffed the envelope full of her own personality and she jumped off of the page with every word. Alfie felt as though he could have closed his eyes and seen her.

He felt a sort of sadness come over him when he slipped the letter back inside its envelope and flipped it over. Rifling around in his breast pocket, Jim pulled out a little photo, tattered around the edges and held it out to Alfie.

"Mum had it done earlier this year and sent it to me," Jim explained, as Alfie's gaze ran across the sepia image.

He didn't listen as Jim pointed them out. He knew. When his eyes fell upon Cara, he was certain his heart stopped in his chest. She had a little girl, who he surmised was the youngest sister, balancing on her hip, and even though the photograph lacked colour her eyes were wide and bright. Her smile was beaming; all white teeth and soft looking lips. Her long hair was braided and draped over one shoulder and her plain dress did little to hide the feminine curves beneath it.

"I can see the resemblance," Alfie smiled politely, reluctant to hand the photo back.

He didn't know why but he wanted to keep hold of it forever. He wanted to hold her forever.

Suddenly there was an explosion and the last thing Alfie remembered was seeing Jim tuck that picture back into the safety of his pocket once more before all hell broke loose.

….

"Alfie, I can't feel my legs," Jim moaned. "I don't wanna die."

"You aint gonna die, mate," Alfie pressed his hands against the gaping hole in the younger man's abdomen. "Just hold on and we'll get you patched up in no time."

The lie spilled easily from Alfie's lips as he watched Jim's ashen face, contorted in pain.

"You gotta do something for me," Jim pulled the letter from his sister out of his pocket, the cream paper now covered in crimson. "Write back to her for me. Tell her I died well, yeah? Make sure she knows I wasn't in pain or anything."

"You can tell her yourself, can't you?" Alfie shook his head.

"Please," Jim begged. "Tell her that I love her; that I love them all. Please, Alfie."

Alfie rubbed his eyes, wishing he could gouge the memory out. Almost four weeks had passed since Jim had been killed along with half the unit. Almost four weeks since Alfie had made a promise which he had yet to keep.

He closed his eyes and all he could see was her carefree and beautiful smile which faded into the sight of her brother coughing up blood as he died, crying in agony. Lying to a dying man was easy, yet for some reason the thought of lying to her seemed like the hardest thing he was ever going to do.

….

Cara walked through the front door and was greeted by the sound of her mother crying from the bedroom. Since they had received the news about Jim a few weeks back, that was all her mother did. The responsibility for the care of Louise and Molly had fallen upon the eldest sister, who was forced to set her own grief aside to maintain a sense of normality for the other two. After dropping Molly at school and ensuring Louise made it to the paper shop where she worked, instead of gallivanting with her friends or some other such nonsense, Cara had to come home and get cleaned up before heading to work herself. Her boss had been extremely understanding, given that she was a friend of her mother's, and allowed Cara to work from mid-morning until supper time, and then she could take any excess work home to do.

Bending down to pick up the morning post, Cara shuffled through the envelopes as she walked mindlessly to the kitchen. She frowned when she saw one from overseas. The writing was unfamiliar; it definitely wasn't that of her fathers. Tossing the other post on the table, she sat down and tore the envelope open.

She must have read it three or four times in total before she burst into silent tears that dripped onto the ink, causing it to run.

Dear Ms Davies,

It seems strange to be writing to you when I aint never even met you before. With this in mind, I hope you're not offended.

First of all, I should like to express my condolences to you all. Your brother was a good man and a fine soldier. I was with him when he passed, and his final moments were spent thinking of you all. He was adamant that I write and tell you all that he died well.

Seems strange to write that, don't it? How does someone die well? But that's what he wanted and that's why I'm sending you this now.

I feel like there's something else I should say. Something to help ease the grief that you all must feel, but I'm afraid I can't offer any such comfort.

I could offer you some light hearted anecdotes to bring a smile to your face, but I reckon that would only make it worse when you truth stares you in the face again.

If Jim can see this from wherever he is, he's probably regretting day he had the misfortune of choosing me to be the one he tasked with such a sensitive matter. Sweet sentiment aint really my forte, no matter how hard I may try. Hopefully, he can forgive me and you can too?

Yours sincerely,

Lieutenant Alfred Solomons.

….

Dear Alfred,

I hope you don't find me rude addressing you by your first name, but I feel unable to speak to you so formally after the previous letter you sent.

The death of Jim has left a gaping hole in our family, but knowing that he didn't suffer in his final moments has helped to ease the anguish somewhat. Well, for me anyway. My mother is still…well, I shan't bore you with that.

I don't even know in truth why I'm writing this letter. I suppose I should tell you that it's to thank you for your kindness in fulfilling my brother's dying wish, but there is another reason as well. I find myself at a loss now that I don't have a letter to send him every week. I write to our father, of course, but it's not the same, is it? That's not to say I don't love my father as much as Jim, but I can hardly reveal to him that the girl I work with got sacked for getting amorous with her boyfriend in the stockroom because he was home on leave. Or that our cat shit in the cow bag across the road's prized rose garden, and that it was the most glorious thing I've ever had the fortune to witness in my entire life.

I'm sure you don't particularly need or want to listen to the ramblings of some girl you don't even know, so I will bring this letter to an end.

Before I go though, I will say that I wish you the very best fortune, Mr Solomons, and I shall pray for you to make it through this.

Yours truly,

Cara Davies.

….

Dear Cara,

I suppose it's alright for me to call you that seeing as you called me Alfred? Although, if I'm being honest with you, Alfred makes me sound like I'm in trouble. Only me mum ever used to call me Alfred, you see. I much prefer to go by Alfie.

Thank you for your letter. I rather enjoyed your ramblings and if you find yourself inclined to continue your weekly letter writing, I would be happy to hear about the comings and goings in your life. They definitely brought a smile to Jim's face and I'm certain they would do the same for me. After all, there aint much out to do out here- not even any French birds.

He hoped she would be amused rather than offended by his playful jest at the final letter she had sent to her brother.

Will you do me a favour? If you decide you can bare to write me another letter, might you look out your window or go for a walk and tell me what you can see? I feel like I aint seen England in so long that I've forgotten what the place looks like.

Alfie.

P.S. Don't feel obliged to write back if you don't want to. I won't be offended honestly. Well, maybe I will a little bit.

….

Dear Alfie,

I like the name Alfie. I don't know why but it makes me think that you're a rather cheeky chap? I might be completely wrong and perhaps you're an absolute stiff, in which case I'm a terrible judge of character and we can add that to my list of faults; which include being a terrible cook, singing out of tune and almost reminiscent of a strangled cat, always being late for everything (Jim used to joke I'd be late to my own funeral) and having a terrible addiction to sugary confection.

In your last letter, you asked me to speak to you of home but I tried to do one better than that. I gathered some things for you that should (hopefully) be tucked inside this envelope.

Alfie frowned and peeked inside, smiling when he saw the various items.

The soil is from our back garden. I assure you it's free from any sort of animal waste, and I thought that perhaps it might be nice to hold part of England with you again. The stone ended up in my shoe the other day. I was walking home from my aunt's with my youngest sister, Molly, and she had fallen asleep in my arms. The whole way home, the stone dug into my foot and I could do nothing about it until I got Molly home and into bed. I swear to you it was the longest six minute walk of my entire life. At one point, I thought perhaps my foot might never recover, but you will hopefully be pleased to know I haven't had to have it amputated just yet. Anyway, I made sure to wash the stone so don't worry about it having any of my sweaty foot germs on it. Unless you like that sort of thing? In which case, keep your weird perversions to yourself.

Lastly, I hope you like the shell? When Jim and I were small, before my sister, Louise, was even born, Mum and Dad took us to Margate for an entire weekend. It did nothing but rain the whole time, but we didn't care; it was beautiful. The shell in your hands is one that I brought back with me on that trip. I gave one to Jim before he left and we made a vow that when he returned from fighting, we would visit Margate again. We'll never get there now, but it comforts me to know he has a piece of Margate with him forever. And now so do you.

Alfie noticed the way the ink had smudged and he traced the faint teardrops that stained the crinkled paper. He could just imagine her, head bent over the paper, sniffling as she thought about her brother and the trip they would never have.

I'm sorry to talk about Jim. I hope it doesn't bother you that I talk about him? Here, we daren't mention his name because it sends my Mum into a right state. It's been seven weeks since we received the news, and she won't leave the bedroom. She doesn't eat, she just sleeps and cries. The only time she did leave the bedroom was last week when she decided she needed to clear out everything that belonged to him. She was going through his drawers and just yanking everything out, shoving his clothes and things into suitcases to take to the church for the poor. In the midst of doing this, she suddenly just collapsed to her knees and fell asleep on his bed, clutching his favourite blue jumper like a teddy bear.

I'm trying my best to hold it all together, but I think I'm failing.

I'm sorry to be such a Debbie downer. My life is a breeze compared to what you must be facing over there. Wherever 'there' is. Shall I lighten the mood with a joke? If you aren't the sort for terrible jokes, then perhaps stop reading here. However, if you enjoy them then I hope these are to your liking.

Are you ready? Don't say I didn't warn you;

"An intellectual came to check on a friend who was seriously ill. When the man's wife said that he had 'departed', the intellectual replied: 'when he arrives back, will you tell him I stopped by?'"

(That was pretty awful wasn't it? Even I couldn't summon up much more than a polite smile at myself for that one.)

"An envious landlord sees how happy his tenants are… So he evicts them all"

(That was even worse I think. I'm actually ashamed at myself for putting these down on paper for you)

"A wife-hater is attending the burial of his wife, who has just died. When someone asks 'Who is it who rests in peace here?', he answers, 'Me, now that I'm rid of her!'"

(I will admit, I did chuckle just a little at that one. Oh- and now we can add 'laughs at rubbish jokes' to my ever growing list of faults).

I realise that I have done nothing but talk about myself for the entirety of this letter, therefore I want to ask you some questions. Don't feel that you have to answer them, although it would make me happy if you did so.

Where did you grow up?

How many siblings do you have?

What's your favourite colour?

What's your favourite season?

What do you hope to do with your life when this is all over?

I think that will do for now. I don't want to bombard with too many questions, but if you answer these then I warn you, there shall be more to follow.

Stay safe, Alfie and take care.

Yours,

Cara

For some inexplicable reason, Alfie found himself feeling angry as he finished the letter. He was a man with no one who would miss him if he was killed, so why was it he had survived over a boy who had a family that adored him and were broken without him? It just wasn't fair. Yet in the same breath, Alfie found himself selfishly blessed that in such sadness he had found some sort of light in his life.

It frightened him somewhat to admit it to himself, but there was something about Cara and the way she spoke that sucked him in and made him want to listen to her forever. Whenever he re-read her letters, all he could see was the beautiful heart shaped face and long hair. It was a face that had begun to haunt his sleepless nights, and on those rare occasions when he did fall asleep, he found himself waking up, reaching for her. A girl he didn't even know had suddenly come to mean everything to him. She made him want to survive even more.

….

Dear Cara,

First off, let me begin by saying those jokes were bloody diabolical. You should most definitely be ashamed of yourself.

As for your Mum… She'll come round eventually. I aint got kids myself so I can't pretend to know what it's like, but I reckon it's like having part of you killed, aint it? I mean, she grew you all inside her. She knows how you feel from inside where you're all safe and then she has to let you all grow up in the real world. I should imagine she's feeling a lot of guilt and anger alongside her sadness. But time is a great healer, they say. And you're definitely not failing. All you can do is your best and that's always good enough in my eyes.

Now to answer your questions;

I was born and raised in Camden. I never really knew my old man; he was always off chasing skirt and what not. I aint got any siblings- well I probably have hundreds of ones what I don't know about knowing my father.

I don't think I have a favourite colour. Maybe ruby red? When my Mum died she gave me a ruby red ring what had belonged to her own mother and whenever I see that colour, I think of her. I reckon that makes me sound a bit soppy, don't it?

I hate the cold and the rain, so that straight away rules autumn and winter out, don't it? And part of spring. So the only logical answer is summer- but even then I don't like it when it gets too hot. Living in the middle of London when it's boiling hot isn't very nice to be fair. That's why when I was a kid, my Mum always used to try and take me away to the seaside. Funnily enough, Margate was her favourite place to go. That shell means more to me than you probably realise. Although don't tell anyone that cos I'll flat out deny it, alright?

If I make it through this bloody thing, I wanna make a name for myself. I don't want people to look at me and see just another poor Jew. I wanna build up a business and make some money, but most of all I wanna be happy. My Mum always wanted me to settle down and have kids, but I don't know if that's really for me, you know?

There is one more thing I would like to do- and I hope this don't seem to forward, like- but I would like to visit Margate with you and your family. For Jim. It's the last thing I can do for him, and for you as well.

Suppose I'd better end this here; need to get some shut eye. But before I do, I wanted to send you something back. If you look inside the envelope there's a pebble I found. I can't tell you where we are but if I make it back, I'll be sure to tell you then. For now, all I can say is that it's a piece of another country and it's a piece of a place where your brother spent his final weeks.

Take care of yourself,

Alfie

P.S. Guess who got a promotion? Captain Solomons… who'd have ever thought it?

Cara smiled when she pulled out the flat pebble. It was grey and smooth as she rubbed her thumb over it; but more than that it was shaped almost like a heart. Her own heart leapt a little and she reminded herself that it didn't mean anything. It was purely coincidence. But even as she told herself those exact words, she couldn't stop the frisson of something that sparked inside her. She didn't know Alfie from Adam but she was starting to feel as though she had known him her entire life, and more than that she was starting to feel as though she wanted to spend the rest of her life getting to know him. It was an absolutely ludicrously crazy thought, but she had long given up trying to be sane it seemed.

….

Dear CAPTAIN Solomons,

Congratulations on your promotion; such wonderful news and truly deserved, I'm certain! Does this mean you get to lord it over even more people now? Oh, I would truly crave such power! I have a hard time even getting Molly to listen to me when I tell her to brush her teeth for bed. I wish you could have seen the happy little dance I did when I read about your promotion. Then again I'm glad you didn't see it because I tripped over the rug and whacked my head on the sideboard. It was all rather ungraceful and embarrassing.

You're Jewish? I didn't know that. Well, obviously I didn't know because you've never spoken of it before and I'm not psychic. Although one time, I had a really strange feeling that something was going to happen and then Louise fell over and broke her leg. So perhaps I am a little psychic? Who knows, huh? Anyway, my friend Nancy Myers is Jewish. Maybe you know her? Or is that really ridiculous given that we're in Chelmsford and you're from London? I suppose not every Jewish person knows every other Jewish person in the whole of southern England? My Mum's Irish though and I'm convinced she knows every single Irish immigrant here, so maybe with that pitiful excuse you can forgive my obvious ignorance?

Isn't it funny that in almost every letter one of us sends, we write about not being to forward with the other or offending the other, yet never once have I found you to be neither offensive nor forward? Truly, I feel as though I could tell you or ask you anything and it wouldn't be strange to do so. With that in mind, I didn't even need to think twice about your suggestion to visit Margate with us. In fact, I think it would be lovely, and not only a fitting gesture of remembrance to Jim, but also one for your mother as well. My own mother drives me crazy most of the time, but I couldn't be without her. Therefore, I'm sending you the biggest hug because I hate to think of you being without yours.

Also, I think that whatever you do with your life will make your mother proud, as long as you're happy. I'm certain that's all she would want.

Stay safe,

Cara.

….

Dear Alfie,

The weather here has turned so cold, yet I find myself feeling terrible for complaining when you must undoubtedly be feeling it far worse than I am.

My father returned home last week quite unexpectedly. He was wounded again and contracted pneumonia. I'm not quite sure how it all works but he was honourably discharged and I thought my mother was going to collapse when she saw him stood at the door. His return has truly brought her a new lease of life. She still cries over Jim- we all do- but having my father back seems to have given her a reason to pick herself up and live again.

Louise has been an absolute terror since he returned. She's still sneaking around with that Marcus Mullen boy I told you about. I can't believe I'm about to write this but I was walking past the allotments on my way home from work the other evening. I'd been working late because we had an order in for a wedding dress and two bridesmaids (all very short notice- I think they parents of the bride are trying to get her hitched before anyone notices that she's got a bun in the oven). So I'm minding my own business, strolling along, thinking about how hungry I am and I heard…well, I don't know how to describe. Let me rephrase that… I do know how to describe but even on paper I feel embarrassed to try. The closest thing I could use to adequately describe is that of perhaps a wounded animal; ort of whiney and such.

Being the kind person I am (alright, and maybe just a little bit nosey), I walked around the back of one of the potting sheds to see if I could help, and what do I see through the little dirty window? My little sister with her skirt half way up her legs and Marcus' head buried in between them. I swear to you right now, I just froze. As you know, I'm never at a loss for words, but this time even my brain failed me. Once I composed myself, I burst in and the two of them sprung apart like they'd been burnt. Louise even tried to tell me that they weren't doing anything and that Marcus had just been looking at something. I think he was doing more than bloody looking, I tell you!

I dragged her home and told her that if I catch her with Marcus again, I'm going to tell Dad. That soon shut her up, but if I'm being honest, I think she's stupid enough to keep trying once she thinks I've forgotten about my threat.

God, you must think we're a right family, mustn't you? I swear apart from Louise, the rest of us are really quite dull. Actually that's a lie, but I suppose nobody's family are what can be considered normal.

Is it wrong that on some sort of level I think I feel a little jealous of Louise? She's beautiful and confident, and the boys have always fawned around her for as long as I can remember. I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit I haven't even had one proper boyfriend. I mean, I'm twenty soon and I think that's pretty shameful, isn't it? Maybe there's something wrong with me? Perhaps it's the fact that I talk too much? Or that when I laugh, I sometimes snort like a pig? In my defence, I can't help it- it just comes out.

Anyway, lack of male attention isn't necessarily terrible, I suppose. I mean, maybe I can be one of those old spinsters who just has dozens of cats? Or maybe I'll just pack up my things and travel around the world, until I'm old and grey, at which point I'll pick my favourite country and stay there until my dying day? Who am I kidding? I once got lost getting the train to Southend-on-Sea; there's absolutely no chance I could get abroad anywhere.

Maybe once you've made your fortune, and if you decide not to settle down and fulfil your mother's dream for you, then you can come with me? We'll be old and cantankerous and travel and eat and get up to all sorts of mischief together? At least mull it over before flat out refuse, yeah?

Take care, Alfie. I sincerely hope that all the rumblings we're hearing about the war possibly drawing to a close come to fruition soon.

Yours,

Cara.

….

Dear Cara,

First of all, let me start by saying that your sister is an absolute tearaway, and I was just trying to imagine your face when you found them. I was bent over laughing so hard when I read about it that I almost wet myself.

Jim showed me a picture you sent to him once; it was all three of you girls along with your Mum, and I don't reckon Louise is a patch on you. I reckon the only reason you aint never had the blokes flocking around you (and apart from the fact that all the ones your age are all fucking here fighting, you daft mare) is because they're terrified of being rejected. They know that someone that looks like you do can afford to be picky about who you settle for.

I don't believe for one minute that you're gonna end up being an old cat lady, but if by some bizarre twist of fate that should happen, then we won't until we're old to do all those things you said. We'll do them while we're young and can enjoy ourselves without old age ruining us, yeah?

I've got to end this here because otherwise I'm gonna miss the post, and it'll be another week before I can get this out to you.

Speak soon,

Alfie.

P.S. I'm glad that your father is home, safe and sound.

P.P.S. There's a photo in the envelope from a friend of mine. It's Jim with me and another bloke in our battalion about a year ago. I'm the one with the great big giant scar on his face. Handsome bugger, aint I?

….

Months passed and autumn soon turned to winter. Cara's thoughts were often of Alfie and wherever he may be. Was he cold? Was he scared? The letters flowed to and fro, week after week and in the undercurrents of those letters was a steady friendship that was slowly blossoming into something more.

Every day, Cara pulled out the picture that Alfie had sent her. Her heart clenched whenever she saw the carefree smile on her brother's face. She missed him terribly. But then her gaze would drift over to Alfie and it would hurt a little less. He was a handsome bugger as a matter of fact. His grin was cheeky as was the wink he flashed at the camera, and Cara found herself even more enamoured by him now that she could finally put a face to him.

On 11th November, 1918 as the clock chimed on the eleventh hour, the Great war came to an end. Cara and her family had hugged one another and cried tears of joy and sadness all at the same time. The streets were alive as people rushed out of their houses to celebrate and it was amid this merriment that Cara found herself say alone at the kitchen table penning what was most likely her final letter to Alfie, the photo he had sent propped up against the fruit bowl where she could see it easily.

Dear Alfie,

Can you believe it's finally over? I can't even imagine how elated you must feel right now? You've made it, Alfie.

I don't know why but I can't help but feel sad. Outside, everyone is celebrating, yet all I can think about are the thousands of men that won't be coming home. What did they die for Alfie? What did my brother die for? I'm not sure I even know. I'm not sure anyone knows anymore.

But I shouldn't tinge this letter with sadness. You deserve better than that. You've survived through unspeakable things. My father has spoken only a little of some things he's seen, and even that was unbearable to hear. So to witness it first- hand like you have, is unthinkable to me.

So right now, I raise a glass to you, Captain Alfred Solomons. Thank you for everything you have done for us and our country. Thank you for everything you did for Jim. And more than all of that, thank you for allowing me to be your friend throughout these past months. The day we finally meet in person is one that I look forward to immensely. I hope you feel the same. And if not, well that's just tough.

Yours always,

Cara.

Alfie traced the last few sentences of Cara's letter, as though he was touching her. He had survived this shit show and he was coming home. Before her, the thought of returning back to England had been almost hollow. After all, he had nothing to return for. But now he had her.

But did he? Alfie realised without a shadow of a doubt in his mind that what he felt for Cara was something he had never expected to feel for any woman in his life. He knew that when he thought of her that all he imagined was that wish of his mother's coming true.

He just needed to know if she felt the same.

Dear Cara,

I can hardly believe it myself. I don't know how I've made it through to the end of this with my life still intact. It's nothing short of a miracle.

As I write this, we're moving out and getting ready to come home. I don't know what I've done to warrant surviving this over more deserving men like your Jim. But I know now that I'm going to grasp life by both hands and live to the full. Which is why I need to say a few things to you.

If you recall, in the first letter I wrote to you, I said that sweet sentiment weren't my thing. And it aint. Well, it never used to be anyway. But when I think about you, all that wants to come out of my mouth are those very sentiments I once scoffed about. So I'm just gonna come right out with it, alright?

Cara Davies, I don't know how it's happened but you have fucking bewitched me with your words and all I can think about is how much joy you have brought to me in the darkest time. You were grieving the loss of your brother yet you selflessly managed to keep me alive. And I'm certain that I'm only alive because of you. The promise and anticipation of another letter from you every week kept me going at a time when I was ready to just let those fucking Huns kill me and put me out of my misery.

I've decided that I don't want to live the rest of my life without you in it. But the only problem is that I need you as more than a friend. How is it possible to be in love with a woman that I aint never even met before? But that's exactly what I am; hopelessly in love with you.

There. I've said. Aint no going back now.

I've probably ballsed everything up now, haven't I? You know what? I don't think I even care.

I love you and I aint ashamed of it.

Alfie.

…...

Alfie unlocked the front door to his dingy old flat and stepped inside for the first time in over four years. Looking around, everything was exactly as he had left it. His bag fell to the floor with a thud and he just stood there. He was home. He was finally fucking home. Yet he felt lost.

Walking over to the dust coated mantelpiece, he picked up the picture of him and his mother. It had been taken when in Margate when he was about twelve. His mother had paid a right pretty penny for it, and Alfie swallowed the lump in his throat as he wiped away the dust that covered her face. Setting the picture back down, he rifled in his pockets until he found the small white shell he had carried with him for months. He placed the shell in front of the picture, smiling sadly.

A sudden knock at the door startled him, and with a weary sigh he dragged his worn boots along the creaky floorboards to answer it.

"Alfie."

The second he saw her stood there, his fatigue fizzled away into elation. She was beautiful. Her dark hair was loose and cascading in waves down her back; her eyes were as blue as the sky on a summer's day. But the thing that stunned him the most was her smile. It was the smile he had dreamed of for months.

Without warning, she launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck. Alfie held her easily and carried her into the flat, kicking the door shut. He set her down on her feet, grinning when the top of her head reached no higher than his throat. She looked up and he saw tears glistening on her cheeks.

He wiped them away with his thumb, cupping her face. She was real and she was actually here.

"How did you find me?" he murmured, his voice quieter than it had ever been before.

"With great difficulty," she grinned, turning her head to kiss his palm. Her eyes bore into his and Alfie was so choked up with the emotion he saw in them. "I got your last letter."

Alfie dropped his hand and let out a breath. At least she'd had the guts to come and let him down gently in person, he supposed. It said a lot about her character. He found himself unable to look at her though. He couldn't bear to see her rejection as well as hear it.

"Look at me, Alfie," she spoke softly.

When he didn't move, she touched his cheek gently, her finger tracing a line across the scar there.

"I love you too, Alfie."

That was when he looked up. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. His knees felt as though they were about to buckle.

"I love you, Alfie Solomons," Cara repeated.

Standing up on her tiptoes, she pressed her lips against his tentatively. She pulled back to look at him hesitantly and Alfie couldn't stop himself. Pulling her close, he kissed her with everything he had; releasing every pent up emotion into it.

Eventually they broke apart, panting and smiling at one another. Their darkest days were at an end finally. Their love had been born from the worse kind of horror a person can know. But they took hold of that love and they kept tight hold of it for the rest of their days.