It was no surprise when he brought home Florence, the butcher's daughter. Dainty and timid, she came alive in George's presence. Her laughter could fill a room. 

His father approved of her the moment George brought her home, familiar as he was with her father. Florence's mother had passed when she was young. There were whispers that her father had never remarried as no woman could match his late wife - or be good enough for his precious daughter. George's father often stopped by the butcher's, using the excuse of 'something to keep those boys of mine going', to offer a few words of comfort. There was always an extra pork pie or string of sausages slipped into his bag.

Florence and George were pure and devoted, the sort of love people envied. It seemed the two would be unable to live without the other. Each morning, George would play a tune on his harmonica, spinning with happiness at every step. Florence would hum along and dance alongside him, joy spilling onto their dreary streets. Neighbours complained, calling it 'obnoxious' and 'rude', but always forgave them when they saw small acts of tenderness. George would pull Florence close whenever she drifted into her own world, and she would straighten his collar, brushing away any fragments of dirt.

A glowing woman with a loving partner.

When the war broke out in 1939, the light they radiated dimmed almost instantly. No one had expected George to become so patriotic. Though only fifteen, he was anticipating his eighteenth birthday, desperate to enlist. What was most peculiar was how very adamant he was. His conviction was intense... and unsettling. 

George was a musician, he loved listening to and creating tunes - he wasn't a fighter. Throughout school, he had been well-loved, still maintaining strong friendships with many of the boys he'd spent his youth with. Perhaps they'd talked him into enlisting. Maybe they saw him as a protector, or someone they'd enjoy fighting alongside. But no one could envision George wanting to fight. He was a positive magnet, the picture-perfect man, yet he held a quiet secret.

George was a sensitive soul.

Not long after his seventeenth birthday, he and Florence were quickly wed. 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 — and this war coming to an end shortly. During the ceremony, her hand hovered around her stomach, and months later, she announced she was expecting. George was inconsolable, clinging to his wife, his face pressed against her stomach. Perhaps Florence, like everyone else, believed the baby would keep him home.

It didn't — and it couldn't.

After holding his newborn daughter, George began to waver over his decision. But duty, pride, and forced conscription overpowered every feeling he had. In October 1941, he enlisted. 

Deep down, he had hoped to be placed in the same regiment as Andrew, believing it would lessen the ache of leaving home. His bottom lip quivered uncontrollably as he waved goodbye to Florence and baby Judith, only a few months old. He could still feel the tiny hand that had gripped his thumb — as if she too was begging him not to go.

During his training, George wrote often, vowing to return whenever the opportunity was given. The leaves he was granted were short, fleeting moments... 

Until May 1945.

"How could they! To my precious boy."

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

"Damn kid. Always putting others before himself," muttered Andrew, his hands jittering against the wooden table. Once loud and full of life, he returned from war a ghost of himself. A man overtaken by damning dreams. An injury sent him home early and his right arm now hung uselessly by his side.

Their uncle called him a coward for failing his medical, implying that the wound was self-inflicted. Andrew spat into his tea each morning.

Edward dropped his head into his hands, letting out a deep sigh. His thoughts drifted back. As young boys, they would hide away on a grassy hilltop overlooking the city. A secluded area with a single tree. For them, it became a secret sanctuary, a place to experience blissful peace and quiet.

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

But he couldn't. This was real.

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, only learn of him through stories. Edward would no longer have his brother — his only friend — making each day worthwhile.

The blissful ray of sunshine was no more.