The war had been dragging on for what felt like forever, and Simon couldn’t shake the exhaustion buried deep in his bones. He missed his bed, the soft hum of peace, and most of all, the warm aroma of his mother’s delicacies.

He longed for a simple life, a bowl of porridge and meat, laughter around the table with his family. He had been barely eighteen when he went off to war. Now, not yet twenty-one, he had seen more death than life itself could imagine.

“They said we’d get used to it,” he chuckled, voice dry with irony. “I don’t think they know what they’re saying. I’ll be twenty-one in six months.”

Moses looked at him. “You can get used to death, but the mind stays full, of fear, of hope, of worry and dread. War is not something to get used to. The only people who want it to continue are the ones making profit from it.”

It was during one of the rare moments of rest from the front lines that Simon met him, Era Moses. A farm boy with striking blue eyes, a calm soul, and an unapologetic smile that somehow softened the horror around them.

Simon took one long look at him and whispered, “I’d love to write a letter to my mother… tell her about you.”

Moses tilted his head. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your mother would probably think I turned you gay.”

Simon smiled. “Well, unless I write, we’ll never know.”

“What about your father?”

“Don’t worry about him. He saw me kiss our landlord’s French errand boy, twice, and he never said a word. Not to me. Not to my mother.”

“Lucky you. My deadbeat dad saw me hug a boy once, just a hug, and he sent me to war. If he’d seen me kissing a boy, not once but uncountable times… I’d be dead on arrival.”

As days turned into weeks, Simon fell in love. Deeply. Unapologetically. With Moses.

Their love bloomed in quiet glances, in wine shared under moonlight, in whispered words traded between gunfire and fear. It was a love the world would never understand, but it was real.

Simon often stared into Moses’s eyes. Blue like the edge of a storm, rare and raw. He didn’t just love Moses for his looks. He loved him for his gentleness, his quick wit, his strength, his patience.

“You’ve got lovely eyes.”

“You always say that.”

“After the war… will you go back to your father?”

Moses paused, his gaze distant. “Never. In my third year here, he wrote me. Told me I’m dead to him because I refused to marry his friend’s daughter.” He took a long drink. “He loves money. Wealth. I’m an orphan. My mom died when I was six, and her brother raised me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s life. We all get used to it. My uncle left me his farm before he died when I was sixteen. Then I had to live with my father—and now his debt is mine. But my uncle… he knew I was gay. Told me to live my life fully. Encouraged me. He never had kids. Said it was greed.”

“I don’t think wanting children is greed.”

“Hm. You don’t think? Look around. This is war. Who are the victims? Children.” He looked at Simon, eyes glassy. “My father tried to make me sell the farm. But my uncle had another plan. I only gain full access when I turn twenty-one.”

“That’s a lot to carry.”

“It is. My father came for me because of that farm. Told me my mother was a whore. Said I’m not his biological son. That he only accepted me because of appearances. So, here’s my little secret, my lover, I trust you with it.”

“I’ll keep it safe.”

“I trust you. After the war, I want you to move in with me. We’ll start a life together. No one will suspect. You’ll be my cousin from Yonski.”

“Yonski? That’s a romantic name for a place I don’t even know exists.”

“I made it up.”

They both laughed, drinking wine from a flask, tearing bread between them like it was sacred.

Simon knew his love for Moses would never be accepted by his devout Catholic mother, nor by society. But the truth was simple: he loved Moses. And he wanted to build something that didn’t carry the stench of blood and ruin.

That night, Simon sat down with pen and trembling hand, and wrote:

—

My dearest mother,

I’m writing to tell you that the war is not over. And to be honest, I don’t think it will be over soon.

I’m tired, Mother. I want to come home. I want to have supper with you and Papa again. I miss you both.

I’ve made a friend, a farm boy around my age. Tall, masculine, and Black. I call him “the farm boy” because he never stops talking about his land.

Mother, I think I’ve found love… in a different way. One that may seem like an abomination to you. We share bread and wine, and he is perfect for me.

When I return home, I would love to introduce you to him. He knows about you, Papa, and Nana, because I couldn’t stop talking about you all.

He says that after the war, he’d like to ask for your permission to take me with him to his farm, to live in peace. He hates war, like I do.

His name is Moses. Like the prophet.

He’s an orphan. But his uncle raised him with love and left him the farm.

I hope one day you’ll meet him.

Love,
Simon