Casualties of war

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There were no letters to write.

Elizabeth Weir had sat down at her desk, turned on her computer, and opened a new document before she'd realized that the entire sequence was unnecessary. The bleak custom had become so familiar that it now felt wrong to skip it. For an odd moment, she considered writing the letters anyway, as if committing the words to paper might ease her burden in some way.

It was my great privilege to work with your son for the past ten months…

Your daughters strength of spirit shone through in everything she did…

This may be of little comfort, but his sacrifice saved more lives than you can imagine…

She'd composed far too many such letters over the course of nearly three years. Each was unique and sincere, but at the core they all said the same things, and none of them fit this situation. Giving up, she closed the document and leaned her elbows on the desk, letting her head sink into her hands.

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