At eighteen, a year after losing George, Edward found himself at university. It hadn't been an easy decision. Days felt gloomy and pointless, his head vacant from thoughts that weren't memories. Trapped in a never-ending nightmare.

Without Florence's persistence, he would never have finished grammar school or gotten a place in university. Each morning she woke him, letting the sunlight in and peeling away his blanket cocoon. She made breakfast, ignoring his protests that he wasn't hungry. They avoided each other's eye. His were bloodshot, desperate for sleep. Florence had puffy cheeks and dark circles; Edward pretended not to notice because she had no choice but to carry on — for Judith.

Edward attended the freshers meetings, a place full of drunks and cigar smoke, to ease his mother's worries. She feared he'd be lonely at university, but finding common ground with the upper-class was difficult. George could converse easily with anyone, a quality Edward would given anything to possess. When Edward had introduced himself, he tugged on his sleeves and feigned a smile. His shirt looked worn compared to the others with their neat hair and freshly ironed suits. Standing taller than his peers and far too thin from refusing meals, he preferred to hide hunched away in a corner than commanding attention.

Alcohol had been passed around and unfamiliar people were sharing laughs, exchanging stories. Regardless of their differences, they all shared one thing that Edward didn't have — wealth. He couldn't understand why Harold, a boy from Roundhay with expensive shoes and a booming laugh, had singled him out. An intense smell of booze spread with every word slurred.

"That's enough now, chap."

An arm looped around the drunkard's neck and his can was removed from his grip. With a smile on his face, Harold leaned into the other, staring at his face. The person was mesmerising, and Edward couldn't look away. Warm blonde hair sat neatly on the stranger's forehead and his ocean blue eyes sparked even under the dim lights. Never before had a person fascinated Edward so much so fast. When their eyes met, he turned away.

The blonde reached out his hand — not to shake Edward's, but to touch his hair. His gaze locked onto the copper curls as slender fingers twisted each ringlet. "Your hair, let it grow some more." 

Edward froze. Growing up, he was always the odd one out, the only ginger amongst sons with chestnut brown hair. Boys at school teased him but George had always loved it.

"Do I know you?" His tone was unintentionally cold but the stranger paid no mind. The strangers mouth was partially agape, his hands moving lower towards Edward's burning ears. He caught the blonde's hand and their eyes met again. "Excuse me — do I know you?"

"Samuel Carrington," he said, letting out a gentle laugh. He caught a swaying Harold. "I thought I knew everyone here, but I was mistaken."

"Surprising. Stick out like a sore thumb, I do."

Samuel spoke clearly with confidence. He had a polished accent that didn't sound like one from Leeds or nearby. It was something only heard on the wireless. As they talked, Edward grew conscious and he wondered if he had always sounded so rough. Samuel's smirk didn't help.

"Edward. Edward Baker."

"Are you in halls?" Samuel shuffled into a gap on the sofa, squeezing himself beside Edward. Their knees brushed. "We're staying in nearby lodgings."

"I'm at home."

Samuel slapped a hand down on Edward's knee with widened eyes. "You lucky devil! I'd give anything for a home-cooked meal." He smiled. "You must invite me for dinner one day."

Edward huffed at the man's sheer confidence.

-

October 1946

A month passed. Edward hadn't seen Samuel since the freshers meeting. He was relieved; he had worried he was approached for fun. To be belittled for being the poor lad who couldn't afford his own tuition. The thought lessened with each passing day and he kept his head down, attending his lectures and avoiding gatherings when he could.

He could focus on university, on his future — and his family.

On his walk home, he thought of George. The day he would have turned twenty-three. Mrs Baker had spoken of baking a cake after a year of grief. It warmed Edward's heart to see his mother smile. He had found it difficult to comfort her during their shared difficulty, missing the same person differently.

She mourned her precious boy. He mourned his only friend.

Outside the house, Florence sat clutching a picture of George in his army uniform. From a distance he couldn't be sure, but as he approached, he saw her swollen eyes. Edward was sure she had been crying. She attempted to wipe away her tears, but her smile was broken, her voice croaky, "Are you sleeping well, Eddie?"

He wasn't. How could he? Each night he saw George, clutching a open wound, crying out for his family. Too real. Too vivid. Edward would wake in a panic so he denied sleep for months, unable to recall his last full night's rest.

"Aye, I'm fine. University is... a big change." 

He avoided her intense stare as he lied and sat beside her. His mind wandered to Samuel — that fleeting moment. It was odd having someone other than his family occupy his thoughts, especially someone so loved amongst their peers. Somehow Samuel had found a way to linger which caused Edward to laugh until a silence settled. Something long yet comfortable. The street was quiet with only a few dim stars in the night sky kept them company.

"Judith asked about her father today."

The unexpected words caused Edward to choke, a lump forming in his throat. He blinked away tears he couldn't remember forming. Florence wiped her own eyes. They'd both expected Judith's curiosity. She had turned five last June, old enough now to notice her father wasn't coming home.

"She understands, I think. That he's somewhere else but he's watching over us. That he's happy—" Her voice was quiet and trembling. Edward watched as her fingers traced across the wooden photoframe, delicately stroking its edges, "We found some flowers and placed them on the hill you brothers loved so much." 

She placed a hand over Edward's closed fist and he felt the cold metal from Florence's wedding ring brush his knuckle. Another reminder of George. "I almost told her that I still meet him every night." Her nervous laughter was hidden behind her hand. The smile didn't meet her eyes. "It's silly, really. The same dream — same place, same time. Back before everything happened. Always Whit Monday, 1939."

Edward knew the story by heart; he could picture it clearly. They were just fifteen, together barely a month. It was a reckless and spontaneous trip to Scarborough. The young couple squeezed onto a packed train carriage unchaperoned, something Florence's father hadn't been most pleased with. George had worn a crisp new shirt with a tie 'borrowed' from his father to appear older as they sat amongst families with excited children, couples newly courting, and old men escaping their wives. The chaos on board presented opportunities for them to grow close. Squeezed tightly together, their knees couldn't help but brush and their hands soon found each other. Their fingers locked without hesitation. Neither made an effort to hide their affection. 

George said the carriage stank — coal smoke, cheap tobacco and a lingering body odour that sent him into a coughing fit. But then he smelled flowers: roses, daffodils, tulips. Florence's perfume. It was sweet, unfamiliar. It made his curiosity grow. He admired the way her pale blue summer dress sat elegantly on her lap, and even the small embroidered sunshine on her white collar. When her cheeks turned a rosy red and she gripped his hand harder, he had fought every urge to place a kiss there.

Together they had walked hand-in-hand along the beach, giggling as they shared an ice cream and ignored the older women's complaints. The seagulls shrieked overhead, the sea air tickled their noses — and yet they were in their own world. 

Edward remembered George coming home soaking wet. He said the tide had rushed in unexpectedly, soaking his shoes and trousers, and Florence had let out a shriek of laughter. The sound of her joyous laugh burned his cheeks. She must have felt his heart beating against his chest when he caught her by the waist, carrying her back to the shallow water. They danced there, two sweethearts letting the water crash into them without a care in the world. Each spin caused Florence to throw her head back and her hair moved with the wind. Strangers had stared, but in that moment, George could only see her. 

George returned from Scarborough that evening, sand dusted in his dark hair, and made an announcement. Grinning widely, he proclaimed he was going to marry Florence. A future without her was one he didn't want to imagine.

"I laughed in his face, but he was adamant. Promised me a happy life, kids, a real future together." Her lips twitched and a smile formed as she remembered a happier time. And then it faded. "I know what they say. As if George can be replaced."

On their street, there were many women who had lost their husbands to the war. They experienced the same treatment — gossip disguised by pity and concern. Edward had overheard talks from older women at the butcher's. They'd watch Florence working behind the counter as she helped her father cut meat and handle customers. They would praise her strength and beauty, whilst boasting about their single sons. It would end with the same phrase: 

'Clinging onto a ghost won't raise a child'.

"Even today, a friend of mine told me that enough time has passed. Judith needs a father. That I should remarry before I become undesirable." She paused, fidgeting with her wedding ring. It twisted loosely on her finger. "She lost her own husband in '44, left with four little ones. She remarried a few months later, but there's something missing from her eyes. The way I looked at our George — the way I do still. She doesn't have that anymore."

Edward's own stomach twisted. He knew the look of love, the sparkle that hopeless couples had in their eyes. He'd never experienced it himself, but he'd seen it. The way his father gazed at his mother over the edge of the newspaper, the way Andrew had looked when he first brought a girl home. The same sparkle that remained in Florence's eyes as she looked at George's portrait, stroking his face.

"How can I remarry when the only man I want is my husband?" She paused for a moment. "I made a lifelong promise to him, but I can't even visit him. He's in a foreign land I will never see." Her voice began to shake as she spoke. She brought a balled fist to her chest, beating on her own heart, asking it to restart. "I can't speak to him, can't bring him flowers, I can't—" 

Her voice broke.

"I hate that he isn't here, not with us. I hate it so much, Eddie."

Edward chewed on his lip, biting back any tears. There was so much he wanted to say, so many comforting words he wanted to share, but they all felt meaningless. Florence had been the family's anchor after George's passing, supporting Edward through school and comforting his mother. There were many nights she helped drag home a drunken Andrew. She had done so much for their family and he couldn't find the words to comfort her because he also couldn't imagine a future without George.

Edward placed a hand on hers and swallowed. "I've been thinkin'... Should I leave the university, find a job?"

Florence didn't speak.

"Gives us money to bring George home and make good use of my education. Like he'd have wanted." Edward let out a soft laugh, but Florence's face was stiff.

"Don't joke like that." She pulled her hand away, rising from her seat. "George was over the moon when you got into grammar school. Passed those exams and everything." Her voice was raised slightly. Quiet enough that she wouldn't wake anyone, but loud enough that Edward could feel her anger. She edged towards the door, still clutching her husband's portrait. "He would hate for you to throw that away."

Edward knew that. When he earned his place at the University of Leeds with a local authority grant, it felt like George had been there. Sunlight had beamed down on him on the miserable day as he held his results.

 His brother had always been there — was still there — supporting him.

Embarrassed, he murmured an apology and dropped his head into his hands. His eyes burned; a hot tear rolled down his cheek. Through the gaps in his fingers, he could see Florence move closer, rubbing soothing circles on his back.

"I just wish I could bring him back. Make things right again. We aren't the same without him." He tugged at his hair, desperate to feel anything but grief. Fingers brushed through his unruly curls he used to keep short. George used to shave his head, grumbling about his own 'boring' hair. Edward no longer wanted to cut his red curls. "I'm bloody useless without him."

"I miss him terribly, Florence." His voice was barely audible. His chest ached; he felt suffocated again.

"Words alone cannot explain how much I miss him," she whispered back.