Tomás nodded, acknowledging the driver’s observation without uttering a word. His mind was consumed with Alma’s letter and what awaited him at home. The rhythmic hum of the bus engine was a mere backdrop to the thoughts racing through his mind. The war had taught him many things, but nothing prepared him for the gnawing anxiety of what he might find on his return.
After what felt like an eternity, the bus halted at the small, dusty town where Tomás grew up. He stepped off, his boots making a soft thud on the ground, and took a moment to breathe in the familiar, yet unsettling air. He adjusted his backpack and began the short walk toward his home, each step heavy with anticipation.
As he approached his house, the cries of a child pierced through the quiet afternoon, coming from the direction of the pigsty. His pace quickened, heart pounding in his chest, the military instinct kicking in. He rounded the corner of the house and stopped short at the sight that met him.
There, in the makeshift pigpen, lay his daughter, Alma. Her small frame was curled in a corner, her clothes dirtied by mud and straw. Tears streaked her cheeks, creating small trails through the dirt smudged across her face. Tomás felt a pang deep within him, a mix of anger, sorrow, and helplessness.
But it was not fury that guided his next actions. Years of discipline and the constant presence of danger had taught him the importance of calm. He crouched down, extending his arms toward Alma. “Alma, my little one,” he whispered gently.
Alma looked up, her eyes widening with a mix of surprise and relief. Her cries softened into hiccups. Without hesitation, she ran into her father’s arms, clutching him tightly. Tomás held her close, feeling her tiny body tremble against him.
His heart ached with questions, but now was not the time. His daughter’s needs came first. He was a soldier, and every situation needed assessment before action. He scooped Alma up, cradling her gently, and carried her into the house.
Once inside, he sat her down on the worn sofa, fetching a cloth to clean her face and hands. It was then that Miriam, his wife, appeared in the doorway, her expression a mixture of surprise and apprehension. Tomás met her gaze, searching for answers.
Miriam’s shoulders sagged, and she moved to sit beside Alma, brushing a gentle hand through her daughter’s hair. “I didn’t know how to manage,” she said quietly, voice laced with exhaustion. “After you left, everything just seemed to fall apart.”
Tomás felt the burden of unsaid words, the weight of letters unsent, and realized how fragile their bond had become with the absence of communication. Yet, in this moment, he understood his role was not to blame but to rebuild.
He reached for Miriam’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “We’ll figure it out,” he promised, knowing that rebuilding a home was not unlike rebuilding a town torn by war. It required patience, understanding, and most importantly, love.
As the sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the room, Tomás knew that the road ahead was long. But with his family beside him, he was prepared to face whatever battles lay ahead, both within and beyond their home.
