The store around them seemed to fade away. The other customers, the humming freezers, the fluorescent lights, all of it became background noise.
“Please,” Vincent said, his voice raw. “Tell me about him. Tell me everything.”
Arthur did.
He spoke of laughter in impossible conditions, of men finding joy in the smallest things because joy was all they had.
He spoke of letters written by flashlight, words carefully chosen because paper was precious and time was short.
He spoke of a man who believed, despite everything he saw, despite the fear and the violence and the constant proximity to death, that he would make it home.
That he would hold his son.
That he would build a life.
“We were pinned down near a creek,” Arthur said, his voice barely above a whisper now, the memory still sharp after all these years. “The ambush came out of nowhere. Your father was hit in the first volley.”
Vincent closed his eyes, but tears continued to slip from beneath his eyelids.
“He knew he was not going to make it,” Arthur continued, his own voice breaking. “He pressed his wallet into my hand. It had your picture inside, and this ID. He said, Find my son. Tell him I loved him. Tell him I tried to come home.”
Arthur’s voice failed him completely.
Silence wrapped the room like a blanket, heavy and suffocating.
Vincent finally spoke, his voice thick.
“He was a hero.”
“Yes,” Arthur said simply. “He was.”
After a long moment, something shifted in Vincent’s expression.
Anger surfaced, hot and immediate.
“I am firing that kid,” Vincent said, turning toward where Kaden stood frozen behind the register, his face pale. “Right now. He disrespected you. He disrespected my father’s memory.”
Arthur stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.
Leave a Comment