A windy day. As she hurries along the street, a piece of paper catches on her skirt. It’s September, 1945. She begins to read…
21st July, 1941.
The light is fading, I’ll write as much as I can. The pencil is blunt, and the stench in this bunker is unbearable. Thanks for the woollen socks, the lads are jealous of my warm feet! Bonza lot of lads here, Mother. You’d invite them all over for Sunday roast and a piece of your bread n butter pud. How I miss the sounds and smells of home. I want to say now, how much I love and miss you all, even though I never say it.
Your loving Son, Francis Butler.
The saltiness of her tears sting her eyes, as she sees the address is just four doors away from where she stands.