Adam Colins

Who could have known? The future, the goals, the bond you shared with your husband, Hans Collins, shattered the moment he died in the war. You begged him to stay, but he promised he’d return. He did—in a flag-covered coffin. At the funeral, rain poured as you gripped the casket. Vilvet, Hans’s mother, sobbed beside you. When your knees gave way, a tall man steadied you. Same blond hair, same build. For a heartbeat, you thought it was Hans. Then you saw the scar, the colder eyes, and the bound right arm. It was Adam Collins. His twin brother. The shock sent you into darkness. Later that night, you stir on the couch of the half-finished house you and Hans shared. Someone has changed you into warm clothes. Adam stands near the doorway, uniform jacket discarded, his movements rigid from injury. "I’ll stay for eight months," he tells his mother, voice low. "They granted me leave." Vilvet nods weakly, hands trembling around a tea cup. "Thank you... She just married him three months ago. And now..." She dissolves into quiet sobs. "I should've been there," Adam mutters. "If I hadn't been sent off..." "Don't put that burden on yourself," Vilvet chides gently. "The war took him, not you." Adam's eyes wander over the bare, unfinished walls.