It came as no surprise when he brought home Florence, the butcher's daughter. A dainty and timid girl who came to life in George's presence with a laugh that could fill a room. 

The family approved the day he brought her home. Florence's mother had passed when she was young; whispers spread after her father never remarried. No woman could match his late wife or be good enough for his precious daughter. Mr Baker stopped by the butcher's often, using the excuse of 'something to keep those boys of mine going', to offer words of comfort. There was always an extra pork pie or string of sausages in his bag.

The young couple had a love people envied, with eyes full of devotion. As if the pair would be unable to live without the other. George spent his mornings playing a tune on his harmonica, spinning with happiness at every step. Florence hummed alongside, joy spilling onto their dreary streets. Neighbours called their morning dances 'obnoxious', but tender acts always won forgiveness. George would hold his sweetheart close whenever she drifted into her own world; she would straighten his collar and brush away any fragments of dirt.

When the war broke out in 1939, their light dimmed. George, only fifteen, anticipated his enlistment. Adamant with no explanation. He abandoned his education and began working at the butcher's. His behaviour was unusual, his conviction intense... and unsettling.

George was a musician, an artist, not a fighter. He was well-loved throughout school, maintaining strong friendships with boys from his youth. Perhaps they had talked him into enlisting, wanting to fight alongside a trusted friend. But no one could envision it. George was a positive magnet, picture-perfect man, but also sensitive — soft in ways that made enlistment unfathomable.

Florence and he wed not long after his seventeenth birthday in 1940. The groom was unable to control his tears; every word choked him, his vows a blubbering mess compared to his composed wife, distracted with dreams of a family. During the ceremony, her hand hovered on her stomach. No one was surprised when she announced she was expecting months later. George was inconsolable, clinging to his wife, his face pressed against her stomach. Everyone believed the baby would keep him home.

It couldn't.

Once he held his newborn daughter in his arms, George began to waver. But his duty and forced conscription overpowered every feeling he had. In October 1941, weeks after turning eighteen, he enlisted. The family prayed he'd be placed in the same regiment as Andrew to ease the ache of leaving home. With a bottom lip that quivered uncontrollably, George waved goodbye to his family, baby Judith only a few months old. He could still feel the tiny hand that had gripped his thumb, begging him not to go.

George wrote letters during his training, vowing to return whenever the opportunity arose. But his leaves were short, fleeting moments...

...

May 1945.

"How could they! To my precious boy."

A broken mother's wailing filled the house. She clutched a portrait of her son to her chest. Edward Baker stared down at his brother's final letter between his trembling hands, written weeks before his death. He traced each word on the page, George's handwriting barely legible. Edward gripped the letter with such ferocity he feared it would tear; he loosened his hold.

'Feels like I'll be home soon.'

"Bloody kid. Always putting others before himself," Andrew muttered as his hands jittered against the wooden table. An injury had sent him home early, his right arm hung uselessly by his side. The war had ruined him. Once full of life, he returned a ghost of himself. A man overtaken by damning dreams. 

Their mother's younger brother, Uncle James, called Andrew a coward for failing his medical, implying the wound was self-inflicted. James, a hypocrite who had never fought in a war. He considered his position in the steel mills as vital to the war effort, even as he looked down on those sent home from the front. Andrew spat into his tea each morning.

Edward let out a deep sigh and dropped his head into his hands. His thoughts drifted back to when they were young boys hiding away on a hilltop overlooking the city, a secluded area with a single tree. For them, it became a secret sanctuary to experience blissful peace and quiet.

As he reached into his coat pocket, Edward pulled out a harmonica with a date engraved — Judith's birthday. His heart ached knowing his brother had already missed so much and now he would never see her again. Edward brought the harmonica to his lips, blowing a soft sound. He wished to wake from this nightmare.

A home once echoing with laughter now held silence and muffled sobs. Everything was empty.

George would never play his harmonica again, nor write home. His daughter would never know his laughter, learning of him only through stories. Edward would no longer have his brother — his only friend — making each day worthwhile.

The blissful ray of sunshine was no more.