The letter that comes the next day – for now that he has nothing to chase, nothing to worry about, he enjoys writing and has the time to do it.
Well, it's been fun roaming around, but I miss your apple pie.
She shakes her head in frustration. Typical Ed. Well, she has quite a bit more than apple pie for him when he comes back.
However long that might take him.
She's polished the newly-finished leg to a burnished shine, and rinsed each pearl on her necklace to a gorgeous glint. She'll do it every day until he's back.
And in the field behind the house, for when she needs time away from gears and grease (perish the thought) she's scattered the seeds of a million tiny flowers.
Spring creeps into summer, and they spring up in vermilion and alabaster and chartreuse and cobalt. And still he hasn't returned.
In the still of the hot summer night, she can't sleep. She's soaking through her sheets, sweaty from the oppressive heat and the all-consuming nervousness. He should be back soon. Tomorrow? The day after? The day after that?
Winry peels the sheets away from her damp body and pads through the house as silently as a ghost. The back door opens with a creak, and she slips out, closing it behind her as she steps out under the dome of the night sky. It's a clear night, the moon is full, and the flowers and the stars are like reflections of each other – except which is the world, and which is the glass?
She doesn't know why, but she walks out into the field in her bare feet, twisting and twirling in her white nightgown and feeling the dew-laden blades of grass brush at her bare legs. There's music somewhere, the drumming of her own heart echoing in the cavernous space of the night sky.