Thomas looks out at the town square. In his mind’s eye, the square isn't empty. It’s filled with them. There is Silas leaning against the lamp post; there is Arthur chasing a dog; there are all twenty-two of them, translucent and golden in the morning light. They aren't soldiers here. They are sons, brothers, and first loves.

The music rises into that soaring, wordless choir—the sound of a thousand souls lifting at once.

Thomas seals the last envelope. His hands shake, but his gaze is steady. He walks to the post box at the edge of the square. As he drops the stack inside, the snare drum returns—the rhythmic march of time moving forward, even when hearts are broken.

The music begins with a distant, steady snare—the heartbeat of a ghost.

As the trumpets reach their peak, a triumphant yet heartbreaking salute, Thomas feels the weight of their sacrifice. It isn't just the lives they lost; it’s the lives they never got to lead—the weddings never held, the children never born, the quiet autumns they’ll never see.

Thomas was the man who wrote the letters. He wasn't a general or a politician; he was the village clerk who had known these boys when they were stealing apples from orchards and scraping their knees in the dirt.