Matthieu had an itch on the back of his head that he could not scratch. His remaining hand was preoccupied with his trunk, and in such a busy station with so many bodies on the platform, he was wary of leaving anything unattended for even a second.

Amadea had assured him repeatedly that the loss of an arm was something he would grow accustomed to and that many walked around with similar disabilities. It had been the largest factor in him not outright falling into despair, and with her help, he had grown convinced of her words.

It was remarkable that a simple yet infuriating itch could change his entire stance.

After a week of travel from one military personnel train to another, Matthieu had adapted to performing the necessities at a disadvantage. Although considerably more vexing at certain points, tasks never crossed the threshold of impossibility, and only ever required one or two extra steps.

He had dropped his suitcase once or twice, expecting his other hand to catch it. He had done so several times at ticket booths when asked for payment, passing his trunk to his non-existent left hand and receiving a pitiful look from the ticket seller.

His hair had grown since his hospital admission, with no one ever having the spare time to treat him, let alone anyone else to a haircut. So, before arriving at the Porta Nuova station in the heart of Turin, former Italy, he had asked for one, hence the itch. His instincts had requested a simple buzz cut, but he stopped himself before relaying his order, simply shortening it into something more civilian.

He had looked in the mirror of a public restroom, barely able to see the traces of his life as a soldier save for the small scars across his face and the limp sleeve of his overcoat.

It was all that simple. No matter how hard he might’ve tried, making those memories and those horrifying moments last forever was infinitely harder than erasing them. Forever just did not seem natural, and he couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take for the world to forget about his company and their final battle.

If anything, perhaps the cruel will of God had left him to carry that memory like a torch in a blizzard, curling around it until even his body died. If he were to die, what was the point of it anyway?

That same question had swirled around his head for the past week of travelling in personnel trains direct from the front lines, chock full of similarly dejected soldiers. A piece of them was always missing, although it was not always obvious which piece at first glance.

Even then, dying for an itch as his train pulled into the station, he could not help but replay the scenes over and over in his head and recall the Colonel’s smitten expression, realising too late how dearly he wished to clock the old sod in the face.

The only thought that kept him going was the thought of practising his Italian with a newly acquired handbook and seeing the snowcapped mountain in Amadea’s place. After all, he could not write his letter until he did.

Although he had no idea what to do after he delivered it.

He slowly shifted into the file of passengers stepping onto the train, a small part of him lamenting the fact that he had barely spent an hour in Turin. Perhaps if his subconscious allowed it, a more relaxed visit would be one more thing to add to the list of things to live for.

For now, his purpose was the Alps in the distance. Introspection was not his forte, and no matter how much he thought, he would only continue in circles. His sensibilities as a soldier found him an objective, and he resolved to follow it.

Filing past booths, each at different levels of occupation between one and four, he found his own—a small box with cushioned seats on either side. Nothing luxurious by any standard, yet the seating and the generous windows made it leagues more bearable than anything he had travelled in until that point. Forget bearable, perhaps he would even find some enjoyment in it.

He slid back the door and stepped inside, the chatter permeating the rest of the carriage ceasing once he closed it behind himself. He kept his eyes on the floor, avoiding the presence of a young girl already occupying a seat by the window, facing herself towards the mountains.

Matthieu was not in the mood for idle conversation, and outside of the necessary communication, he had barely spoken to anyone in a long time.

She looked about sixteen, with a long green skirt starting above her waist and a puffy blouse tucked into it. Her hair was pulled back by a large green bow in a sort of half-down style, modelled elegantly by her turned head, listlessly observing the hubbub outside.

With light brown hair and a peppering of freckles, the girl reminded him of Amadea, but it seemed as though everything did as of late. Either way, she seemed to follow the fashion of yesteryear…or rather yestercentury. Considering the train's trajectory, Matthieu surmised that she was someone of the Alps, the sort he would live amongst as an Inquisition officer. No love would be lost in that sort of position; he’d have to make the most of being ostracised.

Nonetheless, he wanted a window seat and sat across from her. Even then, she gave no greeting nor glance, so Matthieu surmised he was in the clear.

The train began to move, pulling out of the station and into the open air. Turin and its blocky orange buildings had been blessed with a clear sky and, when set against the mountains on the horizon, made for a rather picturesque view. The city seemed to move around him, tiled rooftops whizzing past while clouds and green pastures leisurely strolled ever closer.

It kept his mind occupied for a while, but once they reached the city's outer edges and the view became more one note, he struggled to keep his thoughts wholly distracted. Introspection would never get him anywhere, and the jittering at the tips of his fingers and in the soles of his feet would not fade by themselves.

He stood up and turned around, reaching for the overhead luggage bay and slowly shifting his briefcase off the netting. With no second hand to support it as it fell, the briefcase dangerously swung it as it dropped, offsetting the force that would have otherwise acted on his shoulder. Still sore, much to his dismay. Thankful no one sat in the arc's path, he sat and rested the briefcase on his lap.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

One by one the latches unlocked with a small click and Matthieu lifted it open, looking through the pouches sewn into the upright side where he sorted all his finer possessions. He grabbed a fountain pen and a neatly folded ream of letter paper he had found at a souvenir store and placed them beside himself before closing his briefcase. Using it as a table, he began to write. Or at least tried to.

It was a foolish concern, but he wondered if perhaps he could at least open the letter in Italian. Even if it was a dying language like many of Europe’s former tongues, people of his generation were still fond of its use whenever applicable. Perhaps it would make her feel better, remind her of home.

Matthieu reached into his coat pocket and found his handbook on Italian. Using his briefcase as a table, he creased the spine with his hand, forcing it open as he flipped to the index and looked for anything regarding opening a letter

“Lettres, lettres—” he muttered as he ran a finger down the length of the index.

“Who are you addressing?”

Matthieu looked up from his book, his eyes immediately locking with the girl before him. She had turned while he was preoccupied, her eyes now shimmering with unnecessary enthusiasm. She was even leaning forward, trying to get a peek into his book.

“Pardon?”

“Who’s the letter for?” she repeated, barely an accent to her speech, as expected of the newer generation. Matthieu raised an eyebrow.

“That is none of your business,” he said, once again coming off colder than he intended.

“No, I know,” she complained. “I mean their title, you know?”

Matthieu hesitated, glancing back to his book and praying he could find the relevant section in the next few seconds. Alas, the book was thick, and his patience was running thin. Anything to get her beady eyes off him.

“Well, Sister, I believe.”

“Why are you writing letters to a nun?” the girl asked much too forwardly, brow furrowing.

“Like I said, none of your business.”

The girl frowned, turning up her chin as though there was reason to be suspicious. Matthieu felt the weighty pressure of the quizzical eyes once more and felt obliged to answer. Perhaps he and his attitude were the problem.

“She’s not a nun, just a nurse,” he explained.

The frown turned into a grin, and whatever energy put into her prior scepticism seemed to funnel into newfound excitement.

“And do you want to address her as a nurse or a woman?”

Matthieu sighed, resolving to continue consulting his book instead. At least it gave its answers for free.

“Gentile Signorina,” the girl said, yielding after watching him return to his other teacher. “If she isn’t married, that is. Put their name after that.”

Matthieu looked up at her, catching her smile and interpreting it immediately as wholly genuine. He let out an awkward half-laugh and did his best to return the smile, although never hoping to match it.

“Merci,” he said, accidentally defaulting to French.

“De rien.”

Matthieu looked up, a small smile on his face as though he were trained to react in such a way.

“You speak French?” he asked.

“I am French,” the girl replied. “But I can only speak so much. It’s as good as my Italian.”

“I see,” he said, returning to his letter slightly disappointed. He closed the book and moved it out of the way, taking his utensils and laying them on his makeshift table. Leaving proper margins, he wrote the newfound greeting as neatly as possible, finding difficulty without a hand to hold down the paper when he lifted his pen.

He sighed, putting the pen down and deciding to continue whenever he next found a paperweight.

“Would you like my help?” the girl asked. Matthieu, for the umpteenth time that day, found him looking up from his briefcase table at the bright-eyed girl with seemingly bottomless zest and an unending interest in his struggle.

“I promise I won’t read it,” she added, as if that would convince him.

“No, thank you—”

“Please? What if you can’t finish it later?”

Matthieu drew back slightly, raising an eyebrow. Despite the physical similarities, he was finding it increasingly easy to see the girl as wholly different from the soft-spoken nurse. “Why wouldn’t I be able to?” he asked, merely entertaining her.

“You might die,” she said. Just like that.

Matthieu was speechless, feeling more offended by the statement that was merely out of place than he had ought to. His jaw hung open, eyes judging the girl out of pure confusion. Yet, as they always did, his actions seemed to come across stronger than his intentions. The girl’s smile froze over, and she shrank back in her seat, mouthing a silent apology and turning her attention back out the window.

He still watched her, eyes unable to look away from pure confusion. He tried to decipher the utter jigsaw puzzle that was his cabin neighbour, but none of the pieces seemed to fit.

However, she wore whatever was the exact opposite of a poker face. Her expressions read easier than his handbook, and it seemed her turn of phrase was as genuine as everything else she had said, more genuine than the average stranger-to-stranger conversation. He sighed, unable to fight the pressure of the mysterious girl who seemed to always get her way.

“I would appreciate some assistance, Mademoiselle,” Matthieu requested as politely as he could, which seemed to reignite the girl’s infectious energy. She swung herself out of her seat, standing to her full height, shooing him to the side, and taking his spot. Matthieu helplessly obliged as the girl sat beside him and held down the paper.

“G, e, n…come on! I thought you were writing.”

“O-of course,” he stumbled, putting pen to paper as he was ordered. She spelt it for him, and he copied it diligently, following with the date before beginning a generic introduction. As promised, the girl looked away, keeping her promise even though what he was writing was nothing of interest.

He smiled, admiring the honesty and appreciating the effort. “What was your name?” he asked as thanks.

“Céline Allard,” the girl said, still looking at the view now swallowed by the mountains.

“Merci, Mademoiselle Allard,” Matthieu said, thanking her formally.

“Je vous en prie,” she replied, equally as formal.

They continued in silence, Matthieu taking the time to write comfortably as Céline stayed as still as a statue, her arms barely shifting once. She would announce when she had to sneeze and move her hands out of the way before Matthieu ever asked her to. As a pair, Matthieu penned his letter without issue, even if the words came harder than he would have hoped. Perhaps Amadea was right; he would grow accustomed to it. But for now, help was just as nice.

Gentile Sig.na. Moretti 19/10/1915

Spero di trovarti.

I would like to thank you again for all you did for me during my hospitalisation. Without you, I am sure my arm would have healed, but I do not believe I would have been able to stand on my own two feet once more. You have done much for me, and I will never be able to repay you.

I write to you only a few minutes from Turin, on a train to Susa. From there, I am to take another smaller line deeper into the Alps, where I finally catch a coach at the line’s terminus. It is a small village in the Rhone Alps called Melone, and I am to be the Inquisitorial officer stationed at the village. It is a position that comes with much less responsibility than the title suggests. I have been promised easy money and a relaxing lifestyle. I hope to make up for lost time, and I hope you are graced with an equally affluent life upon your return to Bussoleno. I believe I know better than most how much you and the other sisters deserve it.

Bussoleno is a lovely town, I just passed through it.

I do not know what else to write about, and in all sincerity, I feel as though I am stalling the end of this letter. I wish to talk more simply to know that you are reading more of my words.

The weather is lovely in Turin, and a cloudless sky stretches far into the mountains. The people were lovely, and although the wind has carried a fraction of the battlefield’s woes with it, they go about their day-to-day unabated. It is almost surreal, and I hope you and I may find each other in such a carefree context.

Once you fulfil your service, we will not be far from each other. Write back soon, and one day I wish to visit you. I am sorry I could not meet you one last time before I left.

Cordiali Saluti,

off. Matthieu de Laval