Letters arrived like clockwork, inked in Millor's hurried script.
"Dearest Clara,
The French countryside is greener than I imagined. I keep thinking how you'd love the wildflowers?
P.S. Don't let Mrs. Higgins overdue her mysteries again."
She replied with stories of home: the bakery's new cherry pie, the stray dog she'd named Sergeant, the baby blanket she'd begun knitting. "Come home by spring," she wrote, "and we'll plant that apple tree you promised."
But by 1944, his letters grew sparse. The last one arrived on a Tuesday, smudged and trembling in her hands:
"Clara -
The nights here are cold. I wear your locket under my uniform. If anything happens? know I loved you more than life.
Forever Yours,
Millor."
"Dearest Clara,
The French countryside is greener than I imagined. I keep thinking how you'd love the wildflowers?
P.S. Don't let Mrs. Higgins overdue her mysteries again."
She replied with stories of home: the bakery's new cherry pie, the stray dog she'd named Sergeant, the baby blanket she'd begun knitting. "Come home by spring," she wrote, "and we'll plant that apple tree you promised."
But by 1944, his letters grew sparse. The last one arrived on a Tuesday, smudged and trembling in her hands:
"Clara -
The nights here are cold. I wear your locket under my uniform. If anything happens? know I loved you more than life.
Forever Yours,
Millor."
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