𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 | | 1917

22. THE NEWSPAPER

" You know, I've never felt less proud."

-

May 6th, 1917

'Dear William,'

'I didn't think it would be I who would write first, but at this point, I really don't know what to do.

I'm so lost here. Even though I'm home- I couldn't feel more miserable. I don't want to complain because I know how hard life is out there for you, but for some stupid reason, I felt like you needed to know.

My mother tells me that I should simply rest, that is when she's not locked inside her room, caught up in her own grief.

I have rested, Will, but as soon as I try it just takes me back. Back to everything.

Sometimes even back to you.

Some days I feel like I'm losing my mind, but I'm sure everyone feels that way. I guess you're sort of my savior this time as well.

I truly hope that you're okay.
My heart is with you.'

Josephine.

Jo stared at her writing for a couple of long minutes, refusing to be happy with anything she did, or write for that matter.

This must have been her fifth one. The other ones laid crumbled together on her bedside table next to a small stained cup of ink. Her hands were lying on the wooden table, tied into fists while her feet were nervously fumbling together.

Without letting herself have any more time to think about it; she folded the piece of paper in half and stuffed it into the brown envelope. She was quick to put it back onto the table and sigh while leaning back into the chair.

It was done. She was going to send it.

Jo was going to walk to the mailbox and put it there.

That was what she had told herself the past hours, at least. But did they ever happen? No.

She sighed.
Then, a knock on the door.

She turned her head, quietly watching as her father entered the room. His tall figure seemed so unfamiliar. He had been quiet since the day she came home, drawn to himself. Her mother had told her that he had been like that since the letter about her brothers had arrived.

Jo's gaze stared curiously at him, trying to find his eyes, but for some reason, they refused to meet hers.

She stayed quiet, watching silently as he came forward. Placing his open palm upon the table and tilting his head. His other hand was behind his back, holding onto something.

"N'en parle pas à ta mère," he mumbled, clearing his throat. Don't tell your mother about this.

He pulled forward a piece of parchment. It was a page, seemingly ripped out of a newspaper.

Leaning forward, she peeked hesitantly at the article. It was about a hospital in need of nurses.

"C'est à Paris," her father said before she had any chance to speak. It's in Paris.