Logan Carter stepped off the train into the sunlight of an American morning that felt unfamiliar. A brass band played somewhere, and kids waved flags in choreographed celebration. Confetti danced in the wind, catching in the creases of his army-issued greatcoat. He carried a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and a limp he didn't have before the war.
The crowd roared for the returning soldiers, but their faces blurred together. He saw their joy—he just couldn't feel it.
In his hand was a crumpled photograph. Rebecca, smiling. Summer before Pearl Harbor. The day she kissed him on the porch and said, "Come back to me."
He did.
But something stayed behind. Maybe in Bastogne. Maybe in Dresden.
"Logan!"
He turned just in time to catch her—Rebecca threw her arms around him with a laugh that cracked and turned to a sob halfway through. Her hair smelled of lavender. Her grip tightened like she was afraid he'd vanish.
"I missed you so much," she whispered into his shoulder.
He wanted to say the same. But the words didn't come out. So he just held her. Tight.
The house looked smaller. The wallpaper was new. Her things were everywhere—stacked folders, a government-issue typewriter on the kitchen table. He sat in the old armchair. It creaked under his weight like it had aged a decade, too.
"You kept busy," he said quietly, nodding at the papers.
Rebecca glanced at them, brushing her hair back behind her ear. "I work for the regional veterans' office now. I help soldiers settle claims. Pensions. Medical. It helps."
"That's good," Logan said. Then silence.
She crossed her legs and leaned forward. "It's been hard, Logan. The waiting. The letters stopped coming after Normandy and—" Her voice cracked. "I thought I lost you."
"I know," he murmured. "I couldn't write. We weren't allowed to say much. And after… certain things… I just—" He stared at the floor. "I didn't know how to explain what we did. What we saw."
Rebecca reached out and held his hand. His knuckles were scarred, fingers calloused and twitching. She smiled softly, but there was a tightness behind her eyes.
"I'm just glad you're back."
That night, Logan sat on the porch smoking a cigarette, watching the stars. He couldn't sleep. Inside, Rebecca lay curled under the sheets, her silhouette peaceful in the lamplight.
He had dreamed of fire. Of German children crushed under rubble. Of gunfire that didn't end. Of friendly faces with bullet holes. Of a boy with a grenade in Berlin—too small to pull the pin, so he just held it, crying.
He pressed his palms into his eyes.
The medal on the shelf meant nothing.
Weeks passed. Routine set in, but uneasily. Rebecca cooked breakfast; Logan didn't eat much. She talked about coworkers; he stared at the wall. Sometimes, he woke up in a cold sweat and stumbled outside, choking down air like it was water. Rebecca found him once, shaking by the mailbox at 3 a.m.
"Logan, you need help," she said, wrapping a robe around him. "Please."
He said nothing.
The veteran's hall was sterile and smelled of linoleum. A doctor asked questions. Logan didn't answer most. He stared at the clipboard. Post-traumatic stress disorder, they called it.
"You want to heal, soldier?" the doctor said. "You have to let go of war."
But war clung to him. In every sound, in every corner. He crossed streets scanning for cover. He counted exits. He memorized faces. He couldn't stop. It wasn't a habit—it was instinct.
Rebecca stopped touching him at night. Not out of anger. Out of caution.
She tried. God, she tried. But he flinched in his sleep. He muttered German names. One night, he grabbed her wrist in a nightmare so tightly she bruised. He cried for an hour after that, curled on the bathroom floor.
One afternoon, Logan found her laughing on the phone. With a man. A colleague, she said. Innocent. Still, he watched her more closely.
Paranoia wasn't just in his mind anymore—it was in his bones.
They fought over small things. Dinner. Lights left on. Time spent apart. But beneath it all was the quiet truth neither wanted to say aloud:
He hadn't truly come home.
Fourth of July Parade - Medal Ceremony
The sun blazed down on Main Street as red, white, and blue flags fluttered against the summer sky. Brass bands played marching tunes. Children waved sparklers. The smell of popcorn and roasted peanuts mixed with the scent of fresh-cut grass. It was the kind of perfect American day that propaganda posters dreamed of.
Logan Carter stood on the raised platform beside the mayor, the governor, and two generals. His uniform was crisp, the medals on his chest gleaming under the sunlight. His boots were polished, his posture exact—reflex from years of drilling, even if his knees ached now when he locked them straight.
The crowd was massive. Thousands packed the sidewalks, leaning over barricades, cheering.
The governor stepped up to the microphone, voice booming through the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, today we honor not just a soldier, but a symbol. A man who fought in North Africa, in Italy, in France. Who stood when others fell. Who brought his brothers home."
He paused for applause. Logan's name echoed from mouths he didn't know.
"The State of Ohio, in accordance with federal honor, presents the Congressional Medal of Valor to Staff Sergeant Logan Carter."
Applause. A standing ovation. Cameras clicked. A flashbulb popped.
The medal was placed around his neck, cold and weighty.
He raised a hand in salute, expression unreadable.
"Do you have anything to say, Sergeant?" the mayor asked, leaning into the microphone with a smile.
Logan stepped forward, his voice hoarse but steady.
"I just did my duty."
A short, practiced response.
He didn't say: I did things I don't want to remember. I saw things no medal can undo.
After the ceremony, people swarmed him.
Children asked for autographs. Mothers thanked him for protecting their sons. Old veterans clasped his hand. The press took photos of him standing tall with the governor and his wife. Rebecca was at his side, beaming but looking at him sideways, as if she could sense the storm behind his eyes.
He kept smiling. He had to. It was part of the uniform now.
But then—something fractured.
Across the street, just behind a food stall, stood a boy.
Blonde. Blue-eyed. Dressed in his Sunday best. Maybe ten years old. He wasn't cheering. He wasn't clapping.
He was standing stiffly, solemnly.
And then he raised his arm.
Not in the American salute. Not in innocence.
A flat palm, extended forward and up. The old salute. The one Logan had seen in Berlin. The one that came before blood. The one followed by orders to shoot.
Logan's vision tunneled.
Whistling. Screams. Burning flesh. Bricks collapsing. A child crushed under a tank tread. The boy wasn't a boy anymore—he was a ghost, a memory, a trigger.
His hand clenched involuntarily. Nails dug into his palm.
He tried to breathe but the oxygen was gone. All he could taste was ash. Gunpowder. The stench of death that had soaked into his skin, no matter how many showers he took.
The noise of the parade turned to static. He backed away. One step. Another. Rebecca noticed too late.
"Logan?"
But he was already moving, slipping between security, pushing through the crowd. He stumbled down an alley behind the diner, breath ragged.
He reached the brick wall and collapsed against it, medal swinging wildly on his chest.
Then, he screamed.
A guttural, broken, animal sound—half rage, half grief. His fists slammed against the wall until his knuckles bled.
The medal clinked as it struck the bricks, over and over.The reward for surviving hell. The badge for not dying.
A homeless man watched from a crate nearby, unmoving. Logan didn't see him. Couldn't see anything.
He crumpled to his knees, medal hanging from his neck like a noose, breath heaving. Eyes wet.
From a distance, the parade kept marching. The crowd kept cheering. America kept smiling.
But Logan Carter, the hero, sat in the shadows, unable to speak, unable to feel pride, and certain of one thing:
He was still at war.