The desolate, derelict warehouse was in shambles. Dust and debris lined the edges as rain water leaked in and dripped down from the broken roof. The sound of footsteps splashing against the floor echoed against the cracks in what was left of the walls.
Those footsteps could be heard regularly, the perpetrator was the only one who still came to the warehouse after it became abandoned-when the enemy pushed their offensive through here. He was a middle aged man. His eyes were dry and emotionless and his bones almost reached out of the thin layer of skin covering them. He was sick of war. It took everything from him. His wife died in this very warehouse 3 years ago and he hadn't seen his son in decades; not since he was conscripted near the start of the war. For all he knows, his son could be dead.
As he made the journey back to his home, he saw as the streets became brighter and cleaner, less destruction. He knew the brightness was just a facade. There was nothing bright about this town, or country. His house was very lived in and homely, although many things had seemingly not been used in years; as seen by the abundant layers of dust on them. The middle aged man sat down in his living room and got the newspaper he picked up this morning. It was all the same really. Day in, day out, nothing changed. More people died in horrific ways whilst the leaders who forced them to their deaths didn't care in the slightest. It agitated him to keep reading, as it always had, but he still had hope that something would be good, even after years of constant bad news.
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A knock at the door broke him out of his stupor. He wondered who that could've been, no one knocks on his door, especially not at this time. He was skeptical, but also quite curious so he opened the door.
"Dad!"
The younger man donning a militaristic uniform and without an arm hugged the middle aged man as they both stated to cry.
What was happening? Was this all just a good dream? The middle aged man couldn't believe it, how is he here?