An Unpleasant Homecoming 

The snow fell silently as Mark’s cab pulled up to the house he hadn’t seen in two years. The warm glow of Christmas lights in the porch, a beacon of comfort in the bitter December cold. He had counted the days to this moment through the dust and chaos of Syria, surviving on the thought of her smile and the warmth of home.

Dragging his duffel bag through the snow, Mark paused at the door, fingers trembling against the brass key he hadn’t used in so long. He turned it slowly. Inside, the scent of pine and cinnamon greeted him, her favorite candles.

But then, he froze. Soft murmurs floated from the living room, followed by laughter. A laugh he knew well, one that belonged to Jack, his best friend. Mark stepped quietly toward the doorway, his boots silent on the hardwood floor.

There they were. Sarah, wrapped in Jack’s arms, her head nestled against his chest. They didn’t notice him standing there, didn’t see the ghost of the man who had given everything to come back to this.
Mark didn’t make a sound. He dropped the duffel bag, the dull thud echoing louder than the crack of any gunfire he heard in Syria. The laughter stopped. They turned, their faces draining of color.

“Merry Christmas,” Mark said, his voice hollow, the weight of war replaced by something heavier. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and stepped back into the snow, the falling flakes erasing his footprints as he walked away.