He rotated the watch once, then twice, a quick, nervous habit I had not seen in fifty-five years.
The ceramic bowl slipped through my fingers and hit the grey porch floorboards with a sharp crack, scattering the green peas across the wood.
“Martha,” he said.
His voice was clipped and short, but his eyes were the same deep, clear blue that had looked at me through the window of the troop train in the autumn of 1969.
“Daniel,” I whispered, my hand rising to my collar.
He stood there in the bright Georgia sun, his face lined with deep creases, his hair completely white under a faded cap.
“I came as soon as I could get the bus ticket,” he said.
I stood up, ignoring the ruined peas at my feet, and took the three steps down to the gravel.
We sat together on the floral sofa in the living room, our shoulders almost touching, the space between us filled with the low hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen. The house was quiet, save for the occasional rush of wind through the screen door.
His hand was cool and dry when he took mine, his thumb rubbing the back of my knuckles in a slow, steady circle.
“They held us in a camp near the border for three years after the ceasefire,” Daniel said, his words coming in short, uneven bursts as he stared at the rug. “No letters out. No names on any lists the Red Cross had.”
“We thought you were gone,” I said, my Southern drawl sounding heavy and slow against his quick northern speech. “Clara told me the government sent a formal letter to the house saying there was no hope.”
Daniel looked down at his silver watch, his thumb rotating the casing again, the metal worn smooth from years of the same motion.
“I looked for you the minute the transport landed in California,” he said. “I went to the old address in Augusta, but the house was gone.”
