"I'm Harold. There's a house nearby I'm living in with a few other lads."

One year after losing George, Edward had 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 deep and dark well with no escape — and he didn't want to, either.

Without Florence's constant nagging, he wasn't confident he would be at university. She'd force Edward up from his bed, yanking away his blanket cocoon and avoiding his bloodshot eyes. It looked like he hadn't slept for weeks. Her own eyes were still swollen, too, yet she had to carry on — for Judith.

"Edward," he introduced, tugging at his sleeves and feigning a smile. He'd found himself at a freshers' meeting — a room full of drunken men and cigar smoke. The atmosphere was uncomfortable; he noticed his shirt looked a little more worn than the other boys'. Each one had neatly tidied hair with freshly ironed suits. 

For the last few weeks, Edward had been attending gatherings to calm his mother's worries about his lack of friends. Finding common ground with the upper-class was proving to be difficult. George could converse easily with anyone, finding conversation through comedy and sports. It was a quality of his that Edward deeply admired and envied — what he would give to have just a speck of charisma.

Alcohol was passed around early in the evening and everyone became more 'loose'. People who had never spoken shared laughs, even exchanging stories about the different lecturers. This was exactly why Harold, who'd been hidden away in a group far from Edward, had suddenly approached him. The smell of beer and whisky with every word Harold spoke was intense.

An arm looped itself around the drunkard's neck, though he remained unaware. "That's enough now, chap," the mysterious newcomer said, removing the can. When Harold leaned back to see the face behind him, he smiled.

This person was mesmerising; Edward couldn't look away. Not only did he have warm blonde hair that sat neatly on his forehead, but he also had the most piercing blue eyes he'd ever seen. Nothing about this person seemed dull; he stood out in the crowd, and he carried such confidence around with him. When their eyes met, Edward instinctively turned away.

The blonde reached out his hand — not to shake Edward's, but to touch his hair. Those eyes locked onto his copper curls, working slender fingers through each ringlet until there were none left to twist. "I like your hair. You ought to let it grow more." 

Edward was stunned. 

"Do I know you?" His tone was colder than intended, but the stranger showed no reaction, still far too interested in the hair. Edward lifted a hand up to stop him, their eyes meeting again. "Excuse me — do you know me?"

Harold began to sway, and the stranger caught him, resting a hand on his head. He let out a gentle laugh. "Samuel Carrington," he said. "Thought I knew everyone here. Can't say I've seen you before."

"I'm surprised," Edward grumbled in response. "I tend to stick out like a sore thumb." Samuel chuckled softly.

Samuel spoke much clearer and confidently, with a polished accent. It didn't sound like he was from Leeds or nearby. It was an accent he only heard on the wireless. As they talked, he grew conscious — had he always sounded so rough?

"I'm Edward. Edward Baker."

"Are you in halls, Edward?" Samuel asked as he shuffled into the gap on the sofa, wedging himself between Edward and Harold. Their knees brushed. "Or one of the nearby digs?"

"I'm livin' at home."

Samuel smacked his knee and laughed. "You lucky devil! I'd give anything for a home-cooked meal." He clutched his stomach and turned to Edward, smiling once their eyes met. "You must invite me for dinner one day."

Edward huffed in disbelief at the man's sheer confidence.

-

October 1946

Since the last gathering, Edward had only seen Samuel from afar — catching his gaze briefly — but they hadn't spoken again. It seemed unlikely their paths would cross, and he was fairly relieved. Someone so well-off and self-assured would only bring trouble. Edward had wondered if Samuel had approached him for fun — to belittle the poor lad who couldn't afford his own tuition. 

That thought lessened with every day that passed without Samuel's presence.

As he trudged home, he thought about George. Today, he would have been twenty-three. Their mother had mentioned baking after a year of constant grieving and hiding from the world. It warmed Edward's heart to see her finding some strength again. As much as he wanted to, he was never able to comfort her sobbing. They both missed the same person — the spark he brought to their lives — but their grief was not the same.

She mourned her precious boy. He grieved his brother, his only friend, a source of happiness in a world full of dread.

Florence was sitting outside when he got home, clutching a picture of George in his army uniform. From a distance he couldn't tell, but once up close he saw she'd been crying. She made an attempt to wipe away her tears, but it was pointless. Her voice sounded croaky, yet she still smiled as she spoke, "Are you sleeping well, Eddie?"

He wasn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw George. The same dream looped over — his brother standing before him, clutching a wound, crying out for his family. It felt too vivid, too real. He'd wake up in a panic. For months, he denied sleep. He couldn't remember his last full night's rest.

So, he lied, and nodded. "Aye, I'm fine. University is just... a bigger change than expected." He kept his eyes down, avoiding the intense stare from Florence as he sat beside her. His mind wandered to Samuel — their fleeting moment. On campus, Samuel was always with people. It was odd, having his thoughts occupied by something other than memories, someone other than his brother. Somehow, Samuel had found a way to linger. He gave a small laugh, "There's this one southern lad who couldn't keep his hands off my hair."

Florence smiled, then silence settled — long yet comfortable. The night sky was scattered with a few dim stars.

"Judith asked about her father today."

A lump formed in Edward's throat. The feelings he'd been pushing away came flooding in, choking him. He took a deep breath in, blinking away tears as Florence wiped her own. Months ago, she had tried to to Judith why her father wasn't returning, but it wasn't easy for her to understand.

"We found some flowers today. Placed them on the hill you both loved so much," she said, voice quiet and trembling. Florence placed a hand over Edward's balled fist; he felt the cold metal from her wedding ring brush his knuckle — another reminder of George. "I hate that he isn't here — not in this country, not with us. I hate it so much, Eddie."

After George's passing, Florence had been the family's anchor. She walked with Edward to school, spent hours comforting his mother, and kept the household running. On the nights Andrew was slumped over in the pub, she'd even help carry him home. She was the light, the small spark to keep everyone going.

But what had they done for her?

Widowed at only twenty-two, with a young daughter to raise, Florence endured unwelcome comments. Whispers that she should remarry soon to give Judith a father — that being a single mother for too long was undesirable. Edward placed a hand on hers and swallowed. "I've been thinkin'... maybe I should leave the university, find a job."

"What?"

"We'll use the money to bring George home. Make good use of my education, like he'd have wanted."

Edward laughed, but Florence's face was cold. She pulled her hand away, moving from her seat. "Don't joke like that. George, he was over the moon when you got into Leeds Grammar School. Passed that 11+ and everything." She edged towards the door, still clutching her husband's portrait. "He would hate for you to throw that away."

She was right.

When Edward passed his exams and earned his place at the University of Leeds with a local authority grant, it had felt like George was there. Standing in the school field with his results in hand, he lifted them high to the sky. Sunlight had beamed down on him.

Edward glanced over at her and murmured an apology before dropping 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. No one is the same without him." He tugged at his hair, desperate to feel anything but grief. "I feel so bloody useless without him."

He rubbed his eyes, fingers brushing the unruly curls he used to keep short. Before enlisting, George used to shave his head, grumbling about his own 'boring' hair. Edward no longer wanted to cut his red curls.

"I just 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.