He could not return. He could not return to the place where they had lived side by side in oppressed harmony. When a free future just a hope burning in his heart, before he knew what it would take from them. What it would take from him.

The war had not taken any of his family. Not many people could boast of that. But once, a long time ago before revolutionary fervor had commandeered his mind and soul, she had been like family to him. But he had failed to protect her, and her eyes like the sky and hair like the sun were lost forever to the flames.

He knew that if he had kept her alive, he still could not return. The baker boy with the silver tongue had long since been chosen over him. They were there together and he could not return. That was alright. They needed each other. Needed to fight the demons in their heads together.

The streets would be different, he knew. The bombs had destroyed what he had known as home. But still he could not return. Because the woods would be the same. The woods had been their haven. Their own little world. That was the place he knew he could never return to.

He would let them be her haven, and hers alone now. Let her share them with the one she chose. The trees would relearn who walked beneath their branches, the breeze would interweave with their voices instead.

His family was returning. His strong mother and his little brothers, war-hardened but brave and hopeful, and his precious little sister. But they understood. He knew they forgave him, let go of any hard feelings against him for not coming with them.

He had to build a new life now.