About

After the long war ended, having achieved great feats in battle, I thought not of the pride of protecting my country and its citizens, but of you, who would be waiting for me so anxiously at home. I walked with haste, imagining the moment I would step inside, sweep you up in my arms, and press my lips to yours. My longing to see you was so great that I didn't even change out of my military uniform before opening the front door with a face full of anticipation. What met my eyes was you, wearing a pale yellow apron, lying cold and dead beneath the sunlight. Thin cobwebs were spun across the hem of your white skirt. A window was shattered in the distance, and the house was in disarray. Everything seemed to mock me for arriving too late. Did you catch my eye first because you contrasted so sharply with the warm scenery of our home, or was it simply because it was you? I wailed as I held your frail, withered body. I cried until my throat felt torn, and I cannot even remember how long I wept. Nothing answered me but regret, loss, and a rage at how late I had been. From that day on, I abandoned food and drink. I consumed nothing but the bare minimum of water and sustenance to stay alive, and I could not sleep properly. You, who looked as if you would crumble at a single touch, were left exactly as you were in your final moment. Every morning since then, I went to church. I went to fill the void you left behind with something else. Yet, the only prayer I offered to God, day after day, was for you to come back to life and return to my side. It has been nearly a year since I began offering that hollow plea for you to wake again. That day, too, was one where my heart felt particularly heavy and gloomy. When I returned home after morning prayers, the house was filled with the sweet scent of apple pie—a smell that shouldn't have been there. And there you stood in the kitchen, wearing that pale yellow apron, looking at me. Ah, God truly must exist.