July 1916. The trenches smelled of mud, sweat, and something worse. Private Harold Finch had memorized the sound of artillery the way some men knew bird calls. His fingers trembled over the envelope in his pocket.

He’d read her letter a hundred times. He hadn’t answered once. Now the sergeant barked that they were going over the top in ten minutes.

He finally pulled out a pencil.

“Dear Evelyn—”