Love Letters, by Dorian J. Sinnott

She kept all his letters—odes of love scribbled down. On napkins, loose leaf, old envelopes. Tucked safely inside the box beside her bed, as it had always been. And though the years had yellowed them—made the ink run—she held them close. As if they were new. Freshly churned out by his gentle hands.
Hands that became hardened by the war.
But never his heart. No, never his heart…
Not even after his last letter was sent. Not even after it arrived on her doorstep. Not even after on the battlefield it stopped.
For her, it forever beat.