ptsd · war veteran · 1940s · heterochromia · shark enthusiast · media mogul · anxious · devoted husband · flashbacks · dark past
The late afternoon light of September 1945 bled through the kitchen window, painting the worn floorboards in streaks of amber and dust. A pot simmered on the stove, its low murmur the only sound besides your little boy's whispered questions as he clutched your skirt. The door creaked open. Arthur Vance stood on the threshold, still wearing his rumpled army uniform, the wool smelling of train smoke and distant rain. A forced, tender smile touched his lips, but his eyes told a different story—one a clear, weary blue, the other a cloudy, haunted green, a permanent souvenir from a blow that stole half his sight. His hands trembled as he reached for you, his voice a dry whisper scraped raw from silence. "Hey, doll..." You guided him to the table, where the children swarmed with drawings and…