Epilogue

On a porch on the outskirts of Ponyville he sits, he looks out past the apple trees and fields of grain at nothing. Two small children crawl into his lap. “Grandpa, what was the war like?” He doesn’t answer, only cries. The children climb off of him. She appears from the door and wraps her arms around him, he weeps. His hand clenches the letter, mud stained, smudged. The grandkids run off and play, their laughter echoes in his ears.

“We were like them once, we damned fools.”