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Alistair did not flinch. “It is.”

“He said there was a collapse in the trench. That the British line broke in the early morning, and most were lost.”

“Most were lost, yes.” Alistair said, and the words fell with an odd, precise gravity.

“He said your legs—” Peter stopped, as if remembering that the evidence was visible in front of him, “—that you were pinned. He said you would have died.”

Alistair’s hand moved from the teacup to the desktop, flattening there. “Correct.”

“He said he carried you.” The sentence came out quietly, but Peter kept his eyes fixed on Alistair’s. “He said he carried you for three days. And that you survived because of this.”

Alistair found himself nodding before the sentence finished. The old pain was there, deep in the marrow, but what surprised him was the clarity of the memory. The rain and mud, the embrace of another man’s arms, the taste of river water, the feel of a body pressed close in the dark as the sound of artillery rolled overhead. He had never spoken of it, not even to the men at his club, who preferred their war stories less complicated and more palatable.

“He saved my life. Yes.” The voice that emerged was less his own, and more the clipped, frozen thing that had gotten him through those years.

Peter seemed to sense the break. He continued with a care that was almost tender: “My grandfather told me that you would remember the church. The broken roof, the fire. He said you would know the sanctuary.”

For a long time, Alistair did not answer. The office receded, and for a moment he was elsewhere, seeing again the ruined nave, the arching vault broken open to sky, the chilly air heavy with the ghost of incense. The memory arrived so sharply it felt like a slap.

“Yes,” he said. “I remember the church.”

Peter nodded. “He remembers it also. He said—” and here the boy’s voice lost its practiced fluency, slipping back to something raw, “—that he had never slept in such a place, before or since.”

Alistair’s hands pressed into the desk. His voice was quiet, stripped of its academic authority.

“Is he alive, then? Tomasz.”

A quick smile, almost shy, flickered on Peter’s lips. “Yes. Very much alive. He does not speak of the war to anyone. Only to me. But when he learned I would be here, he gave me this.” Peter reached into his jacket and set a folded note on the desk. The paper was thick, worn at the creases. “He told me: ‘Find this man. Tell him that I remember.’”

The note sat between them, a small rectangle of paper on the dark wood. The office was quiet now, the sound of rain a low hum against the glass. Alistair looked at the folded paper but did not reach for it.

He cleared his throat. “It is a strange thing, to have the past arrive at your door.”

Peter nodded again, gravely. “For him as well. He wanted you to have it. He does not expect a reply. Only for you to know.”

The room seemed to contract around the desk. Alistair’s vision tunneled, so that all he could see was the boy, the pale fingers curled around the spine of the book, the softening around the eyes. He remembered Tomasz’s hands—so much larger than his own, the way they had steadied him, lifted him, refused to let go even when every rational calculation said to do so. He remembered the nights in the barn, the trembling, the fever-bright fragments of language, and the comfort of being held.

Peter sat very still. Alistair looked at the boy's hands on the notebook and tried to imagine what Tomasz had said, what words he had found.

After a long minute, he said, “How old are you, Peter?”

“Twenty-four,” said the boy.

“And you study?”

Peter hesitated, then smiled, almost sheepishly. “Classics. My grandfather says it is the language of survivors.”

Alistair found himself smiling, too. It was a ghost of a smile, but it was genuine, and he had not realized until that moment how rare it had become. “Your grandfather is a wise man.”

“Yes,” said Peter, softly, “he is.”

They sat in silence, the clock on the windowsill dividing the time into measurable, manageable increments. Outside, the rain quickened, drawing new patterns down the glass.

At length, Alistair said, “Tell him I remember, too. If he should ever wish to see the gardens here, or—” he paused, voice nearly breaking, “—or to sit for a cup of tea, he would be most welcome.”

Peter rose, smoothing the line of his jacket, and gathered his book under one arm. “I will tell him. He will be happy to hear it.”

He extended his hand, and after a heartbeat’s hesitation, Alistair took it. The grip was firm and warm; the skin calloused like a workingman’s. The pressure was kind, and the memory of another, larger hand came rushing back.