Guardians of War

Episode 2

Despite the different paths they had taken, Maria and Henry remained close, united by the shared history of their upbringing and the complexities of their father’s legacy. They understood each other’s strengths and flaws, and in moments like these, the bond between them was unspoken but deeply felt.

Their mother, Margaret, had been a constant presence during the funeral, her demeanor calm and composed, though Maria could see the weight of her loss in the lines around her eyes and the way her hands trembled slightly when she thought no one was watching. Margaret had always been the quiet strength of the family, the one who held everything together with a gentle hand. After George’s death, she seemed to have aged overnight, her vibrant energy replaced by a quiet resignation that Maria found heartbreaking.

At the funeral, Margaret had stood by the casket with a stoic grace, accepting condolences with a soft smile and a nod, but saying little. It was as though she had drawn into herself, retreating to a place where she could guard her grief in private. Since then, she had spent most of her days in the house, moving through the rooms like a shadow of her former self. The once lively woman who had filled their home with warmth and laughter now seemed adrift, her routine punctuated by long, silent hours in her sewing room or tending to the roses in the garden that George had planted years ago.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if Dad’s job was more than just engineering,” Maria said suddenly, her eyes drifting over the room. “I mean, he was so meticulous about everything, so... deliberate. It’s like he was hiding something, or maybe just trying to keep things under control.”

Henry frowned slightly, considering her words. “You think he was doing something more secretive? I always thought it was just the war that changed him, made him that way. You know, being over there, seeing things he couldn’t forget.” He paused, glancing at the leather-bound book in his hands. “But you’re right. There was always something… more. Like he knew things we couldn’t understand.”

Maria nodded. “Mom used to say he was a different man after the war, quieter. But she loved him all the same, no matter how distant he could be. I remember once, when I was little, I asked Mom if Dad was a spy. She just laughed and said he was a hero, but there was something in her eyes... something that made me think maybe she wasn’t telling the whole truth.”

Margaret had rarely spoken about George’s time in the war, always redirecting the conversation when it veered too close to those painful years. Even now, when Maria had asked about certain things she found among George’s belongings, Margaret would simply shake her head and say, “Your father had his reasons. Some things are better left in the past.” There was a guardedness in her voice, a protective instinct that Maria couldn’t quite penetrate, as if Margaret knew more than she let on but was determined to keep those secrets safe.

“Found anything?” Maria asked, her voice soft as she approached Henry.

Henry shook his head, flipping through the pages of the book. “Not yet. Just some old notes, nothing out of the ordinary.”

Maria nodded, though she felt a pang of disappointment. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find, but she had hoped for something—anything—that might help her make sense of the vague feeling of unease that had settled over her since her father’s funeral.

She glanced around the room, her eyes lingering on the objects that had been a part of her father’s daily life. The old globe on the corner of the desk, worn at the edges from years of use. The framed photograph of her parents on their wedding day, her mother looking radiant in white, her father dashing in his suit. And, of course, the rows upon rows of books, many of which she had never seen him read, but which he had always insisted on keeping.

Maria walked over to one of the bookshelves, running her fingers lightly over the spines of the books. Some were well-worn, others pristine, but all were arranged with a meticulousness that was so characteristic of her father. She pulled one of the books from the shelf—an old history of the Second World War—and flipped through the pages, though she wasn’t really reading.

“He was always so private,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Henry.

Henry nodded, still focused on the book in his hands. “He was. But I never thought much of it. Everyone who went through the war came back with things they didn’t want to talk about.”

Maria looked at her brother, her brow furrowed. “But didn’t you ever wonder? I mean, he never really talked about what he did. We know he served, but… there’s so much we don’t know.”

Henry sighed, closing the book and setting it down on the desk. “Yeah, I wondered. But I figured if he didn’t want to talk about it, there was a reason. Maybe it was too painful, or maybe he just wanted to leave it all behind.”

Maria walked over to the old armchair by the window, the one her father used to sit in for hours on end, staring out at the yard. “Do you remember how he would just sit here sometimes? Not reading, not working on anything, just… sitting? I always thought he was just tired, but maybe he was thinking about something. Something from the past.”