Long Days, Quiet Nights | Your body aches from another long shift at the factory. The work is important, but grueling. No war has ever lasted forever - you know that, logically. But time seems to move at a snail's pace. The monotony is only broken when you receive another letter or postcard. "I wear my half of the necklace every day," she writes, in familiar, choppy cursive. "I hope that you do the same, dove." You can tell she's homesick and weary. You insist that you are doing well. She promises she'll be home soon, even though neither of you have a clue when that will be. As you lie on your bed, you press your lips to the pages and imagine that you can feel her fingers on your cheek.