A figure moved down the road—quietly and calmly—a dusty shadow with no name to the people who passed him. Some would look at him and stare. Some would twist their face, mirror his agony with the look flickering in their eyes. Some would move their wagons steadily on, not paying any attention at all, not caring about the small man limping down the road.
But the man did have a name. John Cast. Not a fancy name—not even the kind of name a person would remember. It was the kind of name that fades from the memory, just like the man, just like a shadow. A dusty, dirty, haggard shadow that made a person wish they'd never seen the face, all the while quietly forgetting it as the day went along.
The man stopped. He swallowed and studied the side road that twisted off into the woods, away from the main way, away from the people. He wiped at his dusty uniform, but the filth was so thick no patting could make him presentable.
But he pressed on anyways, wobbling slightly as his sore feet traversed the rocky road. Finally, he reached the cottage. It sat quietly in the woods, its pale color a lovely contrast against the green woods behind it. There were flowers in the yard. There was a tire swing under the big oak tree. There was a little, cackling and rolling on the grass with his big dog.
John Cast smiled, but the smile faded as the boy's eyes met his.
The boy stood up. He placed his small hand above his eyes, shading them to see better, scrutinizing the rugged man in his yard. Then he ran away, dragging his dog by the collar, disappearing around the cottage.
John's breath had left him. It's been a long time. But even his thoughts brought no consolation. Am I that horrid, Lord? He reached up and touched his face, running his finger up the familiar scars. Memories flashed to his mind—memories of being on the ground, the bayonet, the blood. And the man's face who'd left him like that. The man who put those scars on his face. The scars that made his eye drop down and the corner of his lip draw upward. The scar that twisted along his cheek and slashed across his brow...
The scars that made him a horror.
John Cast moved forward and opened the door to his cottage. He stepped inside the dimly lit room and was met with the pleasant sight of his precious wife and girl. She was three. He hadn't seen her since she was born, but Colette had told him about her in the letters. Her name was Beth. It was sweet, even the sound of it, but her face was sweeter. The blonde curls framing her rosy face, the fat lips opening readily for her mother to stick another spoonful of supper inside...
Her face changed. Fear struck her as she met his eyes, beheld his face...
She began to wail so quickly that Colette looked up and saw him. She didn't say anything—she just stood from her chair and disappeared into another room with the child. When she returned, she was alone. She stood in front of him, staring with squinting eyes.
“Hello, Colette,” he breathed her name softly, but she didn't respond.
She just kept staring, feasting her eyes upon the living horror, facing the little remains of her husband...
“Say something.” He waited, but she wouldn't breath a word. He wanted to touch her—he needed to touch her. He needed someone to love. He needed to have her love him again, just like she used to...
Her face paled and her eyes grew wider, like little coins. Her lips opened then closed. Her fingers trembled as she ran them down the buttons of her blouse.
He laid his hand on her arm.
She froze.
He stopped breathing...
“Don't touch me!” she rasped. She backed away from his hand, her face twisting. “Don't touch me, John. Please.”
“Let me love you—”
“No!” She stepped back further. Now there were tears on her face. “You said you were hurt in the letters. You didn't say your face...”
John stared into her eyes for a long moment. “I love you, Colette,” he whispered the words so quietly he was sure she couldn't hear them. Then he turned and walked away—out the threshold he'd made with his own hands—away from the children he'd created—away from the wife he'd loved.
  John started back down the rocky road in his dusty soldier's uniform. The loneliness started to make a pit in his stomach. The pain started to work its way through his worn body. The agony finally dawned on him. He reached up to trace the scars...
“John!”
He whirled around, his heart slamming against the walls of his chest.
Colette was racing towards him, her blonde hair flapping in the wind, her skirt billowing dustily around her legs. She stopped before him.
He dare not hope. He dare not assume...
“John,” she said his name on a breathless whisper.
He just wanted to touch her hair, feel her lips, caress her creamy cheeks with his finger...
“John, I love you.” Her hand came up. She touched the scars with her soft fingers, then she pulled his head down. She brought her lips to his face. His horrid, wretched face. She kissed them with warmth, with softness, with love...
Those who knew his simple name, had probably pushed it to the dark corners of their mind. Those who had looked at his distorted face would only bring him to remembrance in perhaps a nightmare.
But the quiet shadow of a man in the dusty soldier uniform didn't care. He was holding in his arms the only thing that mattered in the world.