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San Diego
#1. June, 1945
It was a season ruled less by facts than by rumors, whispers that tugged at people's hearts. San Diego, the beautiful coastal city, was still unsettled—caught between a war not yet finished and the endless tide of military supplies pouring through its ports.
News of victory in Europe had already reached the mainland, and tales of valor drifted about like legends. On the radio, a mournful song might fade into a hopeful speech, the air itself carrying the sense that history was shifting before their eyes.
The battle of Okinawa—fought with flamethrowers and mud, brutal and unrelenting—appeared in newsreels as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.
Boys listened wide-eyed to older students telling stories of heroes who might or might not have existed. And among them now was Russell Adler.
Russell was walking his bicycle to school alongside a few friends when Woods—an upperclassman just beginning to sprout a trace of a mustache—squinted and put on a knowing look.
"Guy took a bullet in the backside and still walked away with a Purple Heart(a medal given to soldiers wounded in combat)…" he said, his voice low but full of drama.
They were passing through a quiet residential street when Russell noticed a figure on a shaded porch. An old veteran sat slouched in a rocking chair, staring out over an unkempt yard. An eyepatch covered one side of his face, and with the shadows pooling around him, the house itself seemed haunted.
For a moment, the man's gaze fixed on Russell. The boy flinched, struck by the eerie impression that the uncovered eye gleamed faintly in the dark.
"…That guy?" Woods tilted his head toward Russell, though his eyes never left the porch. His voice dropped to a whisper. "That's Weaver. Lost his eye to the enemy."
He paused—Woods always did when he was about to embellish.
"They say he ate it himself, just to scare them."
Russell grimaced at the words, then looked back at Weaver. In that instant, the man seemed less like a neighbor and more like a crow, or a reaper waiting at the threshold.
Not every wounded veteran carried the same strange aura as Weaver. At times, when Russell saw them around the neighborhood, he found nothing in their eyes at all. Sometimes it was impossible to tell what they were looking at, or what thoughts—if any—moved behind their gaze.
From their houses came the occasional noise, the sharp edge of arguments, sounds that seemed to weigh down the very medals they had earned.
These were stories written in blood and sacrifice. And yet, they drew the boys in all the more. For those hungry for role models, war itself became the most irresistible tale.
Russell kept listening to Woods spin his wild stories as he pushed his bicycle along. A streetcar rattled down the tracks, its wheels clattering, the bell at the stop ringing out in sharp bursts.
…And that was the day you stepped off the streetcar in a white muslin blouse. Each time you moved, the fabric fluttered lightly, and you liked the way it felt. It was one of your favorite pieces of clothing—so much so that you almost resented the change of seasons, knowing it would have to be put away.
You glanced toward Russell as he parted ways with the taller boy beside him. Then your eyes caught on the bundle resting in his bicycle basket. You frowned. The cloth bulged in a way no ordinary schoolbag ever would.
And your suspicion proved right.
By the time lunch had passed, you were out of breath, hiding behind the swing's metal post. Your chest fluttered like a fledgling bird.
The reason was Russell—eyes flashing in the noon sun—spraying his classmates with a tin-can watering can. The mysterious bundle in his bicycle basket had turned out to be nothing more, and nothing less, than that.
He raised it high, as if he were some hero on the battlefield, his gaze alight with triumph. So caught up in the game, he even hissed through his teeth—"shhhhk"—like the sound of something burning.
He had filled the can to the brim, inspired by a story he'd once heard from an older boy: a flamethrower, roaring in battle.
"Burn them all!" he shouted. But the tin can was dented, leaking a little at the seams. Even so, Russell charged after the children, scattering water in wild arcs. A few cried, others shouted in annoyance, but Russell kept at it, relentless, until every last drop was gone.
You stayed hidden behind the swing's metal post, the sea breeze carrying the smell of earth to the tip of your nose. Then Russell turned his head, spotted you, and came running.
You tried to circle the swing set, dodging him, but when he failed to close the distance he swung the watering can instead. The last of the water splashed over you.
The force knocked you off balance, and you fell. Your white muslin blouse darkened, soaked through with muddy water. Cold droplets traced down your skin. A mischievous grin flickered across Russell's face—yet when his eyes met yours, he faltered for a heartbeat.
Around you, laughter and startled cries tangled together, filling the schoolyard.
For a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze. Then the sharp voice of a teacher cut across the schoolyard.
"Russell Adler! Russell T. Adler!"
It had only been a prank with a leaky tin can. Yet in that instant, he was a soldier armed with a flamethrower.
In another light, it might have been dismissed as nothing more than childish play. But some of the children, furious at being cast as the Axis and "burned" by his spray, carried their outrage home—and told the story to their parents with no shortage of embellishment.
Some parents, their faces flushed with anger, picked up the phone to call the school.
"How could you let our children be compared to the enemy?"
What had begun as a small prank had already swelled into something else—an incident that carried the shadow of war.
June still carried the sharp edge of the Pacific front. Nerves were raw, the coastal city strung tight with the fear that another Pearl Harbor might strike without warning.
In Europe, the Allies had won, but in the Pacific nothing was certain. The battles across the islands had consumed far more time and resources than anyone had expected.
In San Diego, where military supplies poured in and out, people worried how long such losses could be sustained—how long the city could keep bearing the weight.
At the teacher's request, Russell's mother came to the school. A few other parents, busy as they were, also arrived—and so, by chance, they found themselves face to face.
Russell's prank had sprung from admiration for war heroes, from a boy's longing to act out something patriotic. Some of the adults understood that and softened. But others branded his behavior as the seed of delinquency.
"Wait a minute—his name, it's German, isn't it?"
A few severe voices cut in, eyes narrowing, as if punishing Russell could somehow avenge their own children who had been "burned" in his flamethrower game. Their tone carried the sting of comparison, as though they were casting him in the role of a Nazi himself.
At those words, anger flickered in Russell's eyes, and his mother pulled him close. The room grew louder as some parents joined the accusation while others tried to calm it down.
"That boy will grow into a seed of chaos!" someone shouted.
The teacher, hearing it, pressed his hands to his head. His baton slipped from his grasp as dizziness overtook him.
Russell glared back at the adults, his face still tight with anger. But he was only a boy, and in that moment he had no way to fight back.
Then, standing quietly beside your mother, you began to cry. And Russell noticed.
Your vision blurred with tears, yet through the haze you met his eyes. The anger in them had vanished, replaced by a flicker of surprise.
…In that instant, the boy's world widened.
Until now, it had been only himself and his parents. But suddenly, the feelings of others began to enter that world. For the first time, he understood that his play could make someone else cry.
Russell looked to his mother, and she saw that the fury in his eyes was gone—replaced by something braver, something that shone. She loosened her arms around him, as though granting him permission to stand on his own in the world.
He stepped forward slowly, and the quarrelsome voices of the adults fell silent as they turned to watch him.
Russell stepped forward with resolve and dropped to his knees. His small knees touched the wooden floor with a soft thud, and he lifted his shining blue eyes straight ahead.
"…I apologize for my play."
His voice was quiet, but clear. For a moment, the classroom held its breath.
He looked like a boy at an age when mischief should have suited him more than solemn words, yet somehow he managed to deliver them.
The parents, struck by the sight, fell silent, their chatter cut short and their expressions shifting in different ways. The tense air eased. Some drew their children close, others rested a hand on a spouse's shoulder. One lowered his head. Another let out a sigh of relief.
And soon, the small, chaotic gathering began to dissolve.
Even as you were carried home in your parents' arms, you could not forget the blue light in Russell's eyes.
Years later, Russell would sometimes flick his Zippo open and shut, the sound pulling him back to that day. Through the haze of cigarette smoke and sunlight, he still could not be certain why he had knelt.
…Was it fear in the moment? Was it sincerity? Or was it because you had cried?
What he knew for certain was this: it had been the first time he ever had to summon courage.
In the drifting smoke, he would recall for an instant the smell of dirt on the schoolyard, the laughter of children. But before the memory could linger, the lighter snapped again, and he returned to the present.
If anyone asked him about that day, he would shrug, deflect with a joke, or grind out his cigarette in silence.
#2. August, 1945
"They said we'd be home before Christmas."
Someone had once promised that — a phrase that echoed through barracks and letters in early 1942.
But the war, entered into with such bravado, dragged on far longer than expected. Lives and supplies bled away like water, and each loss left behind its own story.
In August 1945, the air in San Diego changed in an instant. The news of surrender crackled over the radio, bursting from people's chests like a breath they had held too long. Windows flew open. Flags appeared on every street.
At the harbor, sirens wailed, and in the factories the machines fell silent. People embraced one another, clapped strangers on the shoulder, and laughed. Yet within that laughter lingered a shadow—the empty places of those who would never return, darkening the spaces between the cheers.
At the newsstands, the word Victory blazed in bold type, black-and-white photographs of soldiers flashing beneath it. But on certain street corners, curtains stayed drawn. From those houses came not celebration, but the low sound of weeping.
The children understood none of it. Their eyes only shone at the confetti spilling through the streets and the pounding drums of the marching bands. That day, the sun beat down with unusual heat, and the sea breeze carried both jubilation and sorrow together.
When the soldiers returned through the port city, Russell went out with his friends to greet them, a small flag clutched in his hand.
"…They say they even raised the dead to keep fighting," Woods was still trying to spook the younger boys with his stories, while sons, husbands, and lovers poured into the harbor—faces weary, bodies marked with wounds.
The salt of the sea, the oil of the warships, the sweat and dirt of the soldiers—all of it stung Russell's nose.
He rose on tiptoe, watching them with eyes sharp for his age. What struck him most was how ordinary they seemed. Not the heroes he had imagined, but men—simply men.
Russell, lost in the sight of the soldiers, stumbled into one of them and fell back, eyes wide as he looked up from the ground.
The Marine towered above him, sharp-featured and tall, yet there was a trace of kindness in his gaze.
"Well now, little one," he said, lifting Russell to his feet and ruffling the thick hair that stood almost like a doll's. The soldier squinted slightly as he studied him. "You look brave. You fell, but you didn't cry. What would suit a brave boy like you?"
He reached into his pocket, searching for chocolate, but found only scraps of paper covered in numbers.
With a sigh, he removed the garrison cap from his own head and placed it gently on Russell's.
It was a stained, weathered cap.
Yet what Russell received was not cloth, but honor. The cap spoke of all the heavy histories left unspoken. The moment it settled on his head, Russell knew it was no toy.
The soldier before him smiled, but deep fatigue lingered at the corners of his eyes. Russell felt the weight of it, his chest rising as if to steady his breath. The cap was too large, and soon it slipped down, covering his eyes.
He lifted it to thank the Marine—but the man was gone.
With a small sigh of regret, Russell clutched the gift in his heart. To him, it was a treasure, and it became one of the few things he would keep for the rest of his life.
A few days later, Woods borrowed the garrison cap for a while, strutting about as if he were a soldier himself. Beside him, Russell crouched down, poring over the "secret war documents" Woods had brought along.
Most of them were little more than scraps—photographs of uncertain origin, crude sketches of battle scenes, and a handful of clipped articles. Woods had a habit of collecting such "classified files" from here and there, and he would proudly show them to Russell, who read them with utter seriousness no matter what they were.
But most of it was nonsense, and the only things of real worth were a few photographs cut from the pages of Life magazine.
Russell flipped through the photographs until his gaze stopped on one.
It was the famous scene from V-P Day in Times Square: a sailor bending a nurse into a kiss as if it were a moment from a film.
Even to a child's eyes, it looked dazzling—so bold, so thrilling that it stirred something inside him.
As Russell stared, thinking vaguely that a kiss must be a way of showing joy or love, Woods muttered with the air of someone who knew everything.
"Adults do it when they're tired of fighting. You're too young to understand."
Russell studied the sailor's daring gesture and wondered, in a hazy way, if one day he might be the hero of such a scene himself.
But then the faces of the weary soldiers he had seen at the harbor rose in his mind, and the gap between the photograph and reality felt strangely out of place. Woods's absurd remark covered over that awkwardness, yet Russell could not tear his eyes away from the picture.
As always, the cheers and the confetti of that day were soon soaked by rain and swept into the corners of the streets. The drums of the marching bands were no longer heard.
Only the lonely call of a ship's horn drifted now and then, while gulls wheeled overhead, crying indifferently above the harbor.
The children returned to their schools. The adults went back to their work.
Until the end of summer, you did not exchange a single word with Russell. It wasn’t that the memory of that day weighed on you.
It was because, though he had apologized before everyone, his eyes no longer seemed the same. The boy you saw that day felt unfamiliar, as if he had become someone else.
Russell, on the other hand, grew restless when you avoided him. When you had fallen and met his gaze, the mischief that usually danced there had vanished. He kept wondering what you were thinking now.
Not long after the new term began, you were sitting alone on the swing when Russell quietly approached. Without a word, he held out the garrison cap.
"You can touch it if you like," he said, and you looked up at him. You knew how much it meant to him. You hesitated, but took the cap. It was rough, carrying the smell of sweat, yet in your palms it felt strangely warm.
Holding it too long made you feel as if something might pass into you, so you carefully handed it back.
For Russell, the simple fact that you had not refused was enough to set his heart racing. He clutched the cap again, trying hard to hide the pounding in his chest.
"…Why," you asked softly, your voice catching just a little.
At your question, Russell held your gaze for a moment and tightened his grip on the cap. With a sigh too small for a child, he shrugged.
"…Because it's my treasure." He paused, then added, "…I never thought you would cry that day."
A flicker of irritation rose in you. Turning your head slightly, you shot back, "…And I never thought you would apologize."
Yet even as you said it, the image of him kneeling returned to you—his face set with a resolve you had never seen before.
"…Try it on?" you asked suddenly, pointing at the cap in Russell's hand.
He glanced between you and the cap, then set it firmly on his head. His chin lifted stiffly, his expression carrying a trace of the solemnity from that day.
Russell saluted you.
Because of his shining hair and the soft, round lines of his young face, he did not look quite like the figure he wanted to be.
Yet to you, he seemed genuinely impressive.
A breeze swept by, tugging the cap down until it covered his eyes.
You burst into laughter at the sight, and before long he was laughing with you.
The last wind of summer stirred the swing beneath you.
#3. October, 1945
The war had ended, but at first no one quite knew how to receive its end. Russell watched as a few soldiers in the neighborhood altered their uniforms into everyday clothes. Some wore them as they were, others cut and stitched them into something new. Among the children, getting hold of a few insignia patches from those men became a small adventure.
In front of the church, they marked the first Halloween since the surrender with quiet prayers for the fallen and the glow of small candles. The autumn wind swept away the heat of summer, and on the streets jack-o'-lanterns and paper bats began to appear.
When the children passed the houses of wounded veterans, they quickened their steps without knowing why. The worn doors and shuttered curtains seemed to hold darkness even in daylight, and the air always felt colder in front of those homes.
In the midst of it all, Woods invented a new ghost story. He told it to the younger boys in a curt, matter-of-fact tone, as if it were the truth.
"When they came back from the war," Woods said, lowering his voice solemnly as he spoke of the newly arrived wounded veterans in the neighborhood, "they realized they had survived only by giving up their souls—after fighting soldiers from hell."
A few of the younger boys froze in fear, blinking at his words. Woods let a shadow fall across his face and went on,
"And Weaver—he ate his own eye to trick the devil and live. But when he takes off his patch at night, a light from hell pours out of the empty sockets…"
As Halloween approached, the houses of the wounded veterans became shrouded in gloom—and in rumor.
At the time, the phrase "Soap-or-treat" was in vogue, much like "Trick-or-treat," meaning that if no sweets were given, children would smear soap across doors and windows. But no one dared knock on the doors of the veterans' homes, nor even thought of soaping their windows. Even Woods, though older, never considered doing anything to those houses. He only added scraps of curses and half-remembered war stories to their legend.
In the front yards, weeds grew thick, and the old mailboxes were streaked with rust. Whenever the children passed by, they held their breath, afraid even their footsteps might sound too loud.
Yet whenever Russell looked at those houses, something in his chest beat strangely fast.
Outside the window, the wind scattered fallen leaves, and neighborhood children passed by, playing with their jack-o'-lanterns.
It was the first Halloween since the war had ended. You were meant to be a princess, draped in your mother's scarf, but at that moment you were absorbed in your make-believe play.
Often you would load a few dolls onto a little wheeled trolley in the living room and pull it around like a baby carriage. Watching you, your mother would smile and call you "small mommy" or sometimes "a little nurse."
You leaned against her armchair, watching as she sewed, attaching a small red cross to a cloth cap.
"Maybe it's a little big for you?" your mother said as she set the finished cap on your head and cupped your cheeks in both hands.
You felt as proud as if you were wearing a crown, and for a fleeting moment a thrill ran through you, as though you had suddenly grown up.
"This will do, but it's still a bit large," she murmured, adjusting the brim with a pin.
"There now, my little nurse. Have fun, but don't go too far—stay close by, and keep with your friends."
You set out with your favorite dolls loaded onto the little trolley. Before leaving, you had secretly dabbed your mother's red lipstick on your lips. It went on far too thick, but you didn't think it looked strange at all.
Pushing the trolley like a baby carriage, you stepped outside into the street, where the noise of children already filled the air.
A few boys, draped in sheets like ghosts or wearing hats folded from newspaper, were caught smearing soap across someone’s front door. They shrieked with laughter as they scattered and ran. At another house, someone had dragged a scarecrow to the doorstep and rung the bell, and the homeowner's scream split the night air.
But tonight, you were a grown-up nurse with your little patients riding in the trolley, and it was your duty to collect treats for them.
"Oh, my—what a little Nightingale," the adults exclaimed. Each time a door opened, your charming appearance made it impossible for them to turn you away empty-handed.
With sugar still rationed, store-bought candy was a rare luxury. Most of the treats were homemade—popcorn balls, cookies, nuts, or pieces of fudge.
Each time you placed them into the trolley, your heart fluttered as if you truly were a nurse caring for her charges. By the time your treat bag had grown heavy, you set off again, the trolley rattling proudly along the street.
"Not bad," a voice called out.
You turned your head and saw Russell, wearing his garrison cap. He was holding a paper bag with a few cupcakes and an apple inside. You looked back at Russell in his cap, and for a fleeting moment, the memories of summer returned to you.
He had only just begun his own treat hunt, after listening carefully to Woods—who had tied a strip of black cloth around his mouth like a beard—explain the precautions for passing the veterans' houses.
But when Russell's eyes fell on your trolley, he was struck silent. To him, it wasn't just a toy. It was the way you carried yourself, as if you were truly tending to patients.
His eyes drifted to your lips, and he noticed the bright red color. He frowned slightly.
"…Did you eat candy? Your mouth is all red."
At the time, sweets were often made with strong dyes, and after eating them children's lips would turn red or even blue. It never crossed Russell's mind that you had tried to make yourself look grown-up.
At his words, you felt a little sulky. Yet in the end, the two of you set off together to gather more treats.
Russell still held his head stiffly high to keep the cap in place, while you followed a few steps behind, half-buried in the oversized nurse's outfit, your trolley rattling along. The two of you walked the streets, sweet popcorn balls clinging to your teeth—a rare treat in the days after the war.
Beneath the lamplight, you looked like a little soldier and a little nurse side by side. Your nurse's cap itched against your head now and then, but you didn't mind at all.
You kept walking, and in the distance the house of a wounded veteran loomed closer, swallowed in shadow.
Even tonight, it seemed to hold its darkness.
...It was Weaver's house.
As expected, not a single child dared to play a trick or ask for candy at that house. Woods and the other older boys had warned them enough, and on such a joyful night no one truly wanted to stir up real trouble.
But deep inside, Russell felt as if the house itself were calling to him. Despite your unease, he stepped up to its gate.
"If you're scared, wait here," he said, leaving you and the little trolley behind. You gripped the handle tightly, watching his back and a chill wind brushed against your cap.
In that instant, Woods's ghost story flashed through your mind.
What if, behind that eyepatch, a light from hell really did seep out—
Knock, knock.
Russell rapped on Weaver's door.
For a moment, time seemed to stop. A few children passing nearby froze, and even Woods, catching sight of him from afar, hurried closer, the strip of cloth at his chin fluttering as he slipped behind a lamppost to watch.
But the door did not open.
Russell raised his hand to knock again—when, from deep within the shadowed porch, a voice spoke.
"…So you're my first visitor. I didn't think anyone would come…"
Russell took a small step back as Weaver rose from the shadows and came forward. Seeing the boy standing there in his garrison cap like a little soldier, Weaver gave a faint smile. There was something wistful in his expression, as though the sight stirred an old memory.
"But you don't look like the sort who'd soap my door," he said.
In the eye uncovered by his patch, a trace of loneliness flickered, and Russell felt some of his tension ease—though his voice remained almost carefree.
Up close, Weaver looked nothing like the stories Woods had told— not a man who had clawed his way back from hell, nor one who had devoured his own eyes to trick the devil. He was simply a neighbor, a little stirred and almost excited to see a child at his door.
Raising a finger for Russell to wait, Weaver stepped inside and soon returned.
In his hand was a small military pouch.
From it, he drew out… a Hershey bar.
It was the thick, rich army chocolate—something nearly impossible to find in civilian life at the time.
You gripped the handle of your trolley tightly, watching Russell and Weaver. The man you had thought a monster from ghost stories now smiled as he offered chocolate—strange, yet warmly human.
From behind a lamppost, Woods peeked out, his fake beard quivering as his mouth fell open in astonishment.
"I don't need it anymore. Of course, during the fighting, I had no choice but to rely on it."
Weaver folded his arms against the doorframe, looking down at Russell. Seeing the little soldier clutching the heavy bar of chocolate, he smiled.
"…Thank you," Russell murmured in reply.
Weaver found the boy's gratitude endearing. He reached out to straighten the cap perched on Russell's head, then glanced toward you waiting beyond the fence and gave a quick wink.
"…There's your little nurse waiting for you. Off you go."
At his words, Russell gave a small nod and descended the steps. With light steps he crossed the yard and left the house, and you, almost without thinking, welcomed him back like a soldier returning home.
And so, you shared the prize won through Russell's brave act. In an age of scarcity, it was a taste of real sweets.
The dark chocolate melted on your tongues, its caffeine quickening your hearts as the two of you laughed and walked along the shore. The thrill of having escaped unscathed from Weaver's house—your haunted house for the night—still sent a small flutter through your chest. Yet the bittersweet taste of the chocolate brought back the memory of the loneliness in Weaver's eyes.
From afar came the sound of waves, and the moonlight washed the shoreline in silver.
The music of a live band drifted through the night, and the silhouettes of adults laughing and dancing flickered in the distance.
It was like watching a shadow play.
Joyful, lively—yet within those movements there was something more.
A vitality… perhaps even a kind of hope.
While you were lost in watching the shadows, Russell suddenly came closer.
"…You smell like you fell into a chocolate pond."
But from him, too, there came the sweet scent of treats.
"You smell like someone who just ran away from a candy house," you protested, stepping toward him.
Just as the quarrel was about to begin, Russell suddenly saw you—with your clumsily applied lipstick—as the very nurse from that Life magazine photograph.
—"Sometimes adults do that when they get tired of fighting. You wouldn't know, you're too young."
Those were the words Woods had once said, as he gazed at the picture of the couple kissing in Times Square. And now they echoed in Russell's mind.
The boy blinked his long lashes and, almost without realizing it, brushed his lips lightly against yours.
For the briefest moment, the two of you were the sailor and the nurse of V-P Day. And had anyone seen you then, your figures would have looked only like two dolls meeting in the sweetest, most innocent way.
Your eyes widened, and the nurse's cap pinned to your hair tilted slightly to one side. Startled, you looked at Russell, but at that moment you still didn't know what it meant. Your heart fluttered again like a fledgling's, though you couldn't tell whether it was because of the chocolate or because of Russell.
All that remained in the corner of your mind were the distant festival lights flickering, the sound of laughter, and the low murmur of the waves.
…And of course, if you were ever to ask Russell about it later, he would clear his throat, turn away, and suddenly pretend to check the soles of his shoes to avoid your gaze.
#4. 1955 / One Day
That day, as on any other, the salty tang of the sea drifted on the wind, and the cries of seabirds echoed like a roundelay. The low moan of a ship’s horn carried through the air, as if urging someone onward.
With a large bag at his feet, Russell sat hunched on a bench beside the pay phone, waiting for you.
He was just on the verge of manhood now—his frame broader, his features more grown. Because of the memories of his childhood, he had chosen to become a soldier. No longer would he carry toys, but real weapons; no longer wear a borrowed cap, but a military hat bearing his own name.
—The 1950s. As the shadow of the Cold War slowly took root, young lives were once again being drawn into the fire of war. Ten years had passed since V-P Day. Yet in the world of a boy, there was no such thing as a lasting victory.
As you approached, he glanced at you once, then pulled a Zippo lighter from his pocket and showed off a little trick.
In that instant, he seemed both the boy who once wore a garrison cap in the summer sun, chin held high, and at the same time a stranger who had already become a man.
Excitement? Fear?
Perhaps both…
It was a feeling you could not put into words, and though you wanted to speak, it seemed as if your voice would only be swallowed by the sea breeze. As the flame of the lighter danced between his fingers, the sea breeze seemed to stir even the oldest of memories.
You started to greet him but paused, watching it for a moment.
"…So, is that the kind of cheap trick you learn once you become a soldier?" you asked with a hint of mockery. He let out something between a snort and a laugh through his nose.
One thing was certain: even when you teased him like that, he was glad to be with you.
It was for that very reason he had decided to see you one last time before leaving for the army.
"…I could show you something else, but there's no time for that now."
He teased you in a sly tone, and you turned your face away, cheeks flushed. Even though he spoke playfully, you could sense the tension hidden behind his smile.
For a while, the two of you sat side by side, taking in the view of San Diego.
A memory flickered through your mind—of the time you both roamed the streets in Halloween costumes.
Familiar streets, familiar scents, familiar lights…
Russell gazed at the scene with you, not knowing when he might see it again.
"…It's not like I asked to see you because I had something grand to say."
He muttered in a casual tone, lifting his brows slightly.
"I know. You're not the type to say anything grand," you replied matter-of-factly.
…Because he simply wanted to be with you—
But he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud.
Instead…
"…Next time we meet, I hope you'll have blossomed like a flower."
After a long pause, he finally spoke, pulling up his collar as he did.
"What do you mean?" you asked, puzzled, as you stood up and watched him sling the bag over his shoulder.
"…Did you forget? That time I sprinkled you with the watering can." he answered over his shoulder.
You recalled that foolish prank from childhood—the day your white muslin blouse was splattered with muddy water…
Puffing out your cheeks like a little girl, you protested.
"Wait a second, are you saying I'm still a child?"
When you challenged him, he only grinned, gave a little wave with his fingers, and strode away.
In that moment, you caught a glimpse of determination—and a trace of loneliness—on his face.
Just like the expression you had once seen on Weaver's.
And then, like that day's chocolate, a bittersweet taste seemed to linger in your mouth.
Russell strode away, and between the two of you drifted all the words left unspoken.
Yet one thing can be said with certainty.
The reason he chose to become a soldier…?
There may have been many, but one was clear: he wanted to protect you.
Just as he once knelt down when you cried.
…To you, he is a tin can soldier.
He was back then, and even now, as he stands by your side.
[Creator's note]
This story grew from a small idea I had last summer. While daydreaming about Adler's childhood, I found myself sketching a few illustrations—and from there, this reader-insert fiction quietly took shape.
To write this fiction, I briefly researched the atmosphere at the end of the war, and I tried to keep the narrative within the bounds of historical plausibility.
In the fiction, young Adler first sensed the weight of his choices through your tears, and gradually he began to awaken to a life shaped by honor and courage. At the same time, he grew into a young man who, despite your complaints, simply enjoyed being by your side.
And as you can see from the final line, he is still there with you. :)
If this fiction has left you with a sense of poignancy, nostalgia, growth, and the shadow of war, then I feel deeply rewarded.
Thank you for joining me on this journey.💕
P.S. The Marine who gave Adler the garrison cap was, in fact, Alex Mason. His name isn’t mentioned, but the numbers in his pocket—and the quiet sigh—were meant to hint at his identity.