A banging at the front door made Ruby look up from the table top she was staring at, eyes half closed, tired to the bones. It was very early in the morning, 5 a.m., a time no human with a functioning brain would visit another human. Reluctantly she stood up and tiptoed to the front door. Another loud knock made her jump. Carefully she opened the door and Arthur Shelby, who'd obviously leant against the door, fell on top of her.

"Ouch! For God's sake! Mr. Shelby!" She moaned, trying to free herself from his weight.

"Mo ... morning," he mumbled and rolled off her. "Sorry."

Obviously, he was totally drunk.

"What are you doing here?" Ruby asked and sat up.

"I wanted to ... to talk to you," he slurred.

"Alright then. Talk about what? Has something happened?"

Now he sat up too and gave her a long look, before he shook his head: "I don't know. I ... just longed for ... a...mpny."

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Shelby?" Ruby asked, not able to understand this slurred murmur.

"Arthur. Jussss call me Arthur."

"May I offer you a cup of tea, Arthur?" Ruby asked with a smile, and stood up from the floor.

"Aye. Oh, got a pres... present for ya, Rub ..." Arthur said and raised slowly.

He fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket and offered her his present.

Ruby suppressed a laugh, while looking totally surprised between his hand and his stone-faced and serious mien.

"Oh, ... mhm, thank you. So, did you rob a market? That's two parsnips and some parsley." She said and took her present carefully out of his hands.

"Aye. Guess I did. Can't re...remember. I wanted to bring flowers, but there weren't any. Sorry, sorry."

"That's fine, Arthur. So, did they plague you the whole night? Again?" She asked, referring to the dead and wounded, to the horror of the war he re-lived over and over in his head.

"Aye. I drank to forget but I can't, just can't."

"I see," Ruby said and poured him a cup of tea. "Take a seat. The sun's rising, the night will be over soon."

Arthur slumped on a chair, staring at the table top, just like she did a few minutes ago. He cleared his throat and as he started to speak he did it slow and accentuated.

"We know each other for half a year."

"Yes, we do. I'm thankful for the job you offered me, Mr. Shel ... Arthur."

"Mhm," he grunted and said lowly: "At night, when they come haunt me, when I sit in a muddy trench and watch them die, I ... I long for ya company. But ... but then I'm afraid that I'm not able to protect you, that you gonna die in my arms too. They will take you from me. They always do so, snatching the woman I'm in love with away, right out of my arms. Living with me in the trench is ... ex ...excruciating, more than a woman can bear."

His speech was still slurry but he spoke slowly, so Ruby was able to understand him.

"Before I worked for the Shelby Company I lived in a trench too." Ruby said lowly and gave him a smile. "My husband and my brother lived here, both suffering from horrible injuries, both haunted."

"Mustard gas, right?" Arthur asked and nodded slowly. "I knew them both."

"Aye," Ruby nodded and gave him a sad smile. "Last winter my husband died after two years of suffering, and in March my brother lost the fight against the cancer he got from the mustard gas. I'm used to the nightmares and to everything regarding living with a haunted soldier."

Arthur shook his head slightly and emptied his tea cup: "I'll better go. Maybe I'll see you at the office later. Don't wait for me."

"Alright. Sleep well. And thank you for the lovely present. Actually, I've got a recipe for a parsnip and parsley casserole. Maybe you want to join me? Tomorrow evening?"

"I'll be there, thank you. And sorry for ..."

"No need to be sorry, Arthur. We're fine." Ruby answered and gave him a smile.

He nodded and stepped out of the door, just to come in again three seconds later.

"I'm in love with you, Ruby," he said and she nodded: "Aye, I got that."

"And?"

"I'm glad to hear, because I feel very similar for you."

"Good," Arthur answered and left.

She walked over to the window and watched him wobbling down the street. He wouldn't remember a single word later, not even that he'd visited her. But maybe the first step had been made.