Then one cool, overcast afternoon, he was simply back. Standing outside his house like he'd never left, except everything about him was wrong.

He was taller. Broader through the shoulders. His hair was shorn short, and the easy, lopsided grin that used to live on his face had been replaced by something tense and guarded.

You'd spent two months waiting for him to come home. Two months hoping for an explanation. Two months telling yourself that whatever had happened, you'd face it together, because that's what you always did.