“What!?”
At those words, Old Master Winslow’s brows drew together sharply. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and the wine he had just poured spilled over the rim of the glass, soaking into the tablecloth in a dark, spreading stain.
Today was his eightieth birthday.
And his wife—his lifelong companion, Harriet Foster—was already eighty-three.
Their story stretched across decades, forged not in comfort, but in hardship. When they first met, he had been nothing more than a second-class soldier—young, unproven, and expendable. She, on the other hand, had been a medical orderly, tending to the wounded with quiet resilience and unwavering patience.
Like so many stories that began in chaos and pain, theirs had taken root in the aftermath of violence. He had been carried into the field infir
