I stood at the doorway of a quaint old house. A brief glance at my smartphone told me this was the right place.

Knocking on the door, I was greeted by a woman dressed in a worn tank top and old pajamas. Beside her is who I presume is her five year old son. His clothing was still casual, but a level nicer. "Whad'ya want?" she asked, quite coarsely.

I simply dug into my shoulder bag and produced and old notebook, worn by time and hard use. Handing it to her, I said "Just wanted to give you this."

She took one glance at it, and then opened it. An old, bloodstained photograph fell out, and she promptly picked it up. In a smoother tone, she said "come in," before turning around and walking away.

I slowly entered the humble flat and saw a place of spartan appearance. She said "Make yourself at home, sir." Seeing a small love seat in the corner, I decided to sit there.

"Would you like anything to drink?" she asked from the kitchen.

"What do you have?"

"I've got some coke and a bottle of scotch."

"I'll have some scotch."

She came out of the kitchen with scotch and a couple of glasses. She ushered her son into his room before returning to the kitchen island. Filling the glasses, she asked "Where'd you get this?"

This was perhaps one of the toughest questions I've asked. Not because I didn't know the answer, but because I knew the answer.

Five years ago, he was a Scarlett Academy Marine Infantryman, screaming a battle cry and charging toward me with a bayonet affixed to the muzzle of his rifle. And five years ago, I had orders to end his life, because he was ordered to end mine. A single 5.56mm armor-piercing bullet through his head, fired from my M4 carbine at a distance of about 50 meters, was the end of him.

I drank some scotch and said "After the battle, we were given orders to check the bodies for any useful information. Maps, codes, logbooks, and the like. Doing that, I found this," placing my hand atop the notebook. "Something in me told me to keep it. That someone wants this back. It was just this vibe I got from it."

She teared up a bit. "Thank you for getting it to me." She gestured to the room at the end of the hallway. "You see him?" she asked.

Through the door to his room, I could see him playing with Legos, in his little world as children do.

"I do."

"His father was the love of my life. A soulmate, as you Paternians call it." She opened the book and drew a blood-stained photograph. I could see a younger version of her, belly swollen with unborn child within. Next to her was a familiar face in a familiar uniform. In front were four young children, three boys and a girl. Behind them was a KRIEG Blackbuck station wagon and a large apartment building of high quality.

"After the defeat, we lost everything. Because my husband was officially missing in action, I received no compensation."

Such didn't surprise me; the actions on West Island were perhaps one of the most one-sided victories in Paternian military history, where three divisions of the 3rd Paternian Army with six independent regiments such as the Arab Legion and the 1st Marine Expeditionary Regiment, crushed a force five times its size while taking virtually no losses to enemy action. Naturally, the SAN would be keen to not disclose such a tremendous defeat to its people.

She continued "I lost almost everything I had during the war. There was no food to be found. People would kill over scraps of bread. In the chaos, my children were murdered by a gang of orphaned teens for a chocolate bar."

"No parent deserves to bury their children," I said.

"Easy for you to say," she scoffed.

"I've done it myself," I added, "My son was the happiest little boy you'd ever know." A tear came down my face "He came to heaven two days shy of his seventh birthday. Death claimed him with leukemia. He was in pain every day of his life, but he was a little trooper. He fought on until the very end."

She seemed rather shocked by this. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"It's alright," I said.

A brief silence followed, punctuated by the collision of molded plastic toys and a five year old boy mimicking the sounds of some jet airplane.

"He's all I've got right now," she smiled, watching him play through the ajar door. Turning to me, she said "Thank you for the notebook."

"No problem."

I stood up and was about to leave when she asked "Wanna go for a drink sometime?"

"Sure."