He left young, rifle in hand, not chasing glory, just an ending. Some men fear death, he welcomed it, stepped onto foreign soil like a gambler pushing his last chip forward. But death never came. It passed him over, again and again, whispering past his ear, pulling the breath from others, but never him. He made it home, somehow. Built a life, found love, felt small hands wrap around his own. A woman, children, the weight of something whole, something good. He smiles, he laughs, he holds them tight, but inside, he knows— this life was never meant for him. He walks through it like a man wearing another’s skin, grateful, but out of place. Nights are the worst. When the house is quiet, when their soft breathing fills the dark, he lies awake, waiting for the debt to be called, for the hand on his shoulder, for the truth to set in that he was supposed to stay where the sand swallowed his footprints. But morning comes, the sun rises, his daughter pulls at his sleeve, his woman kisses him slow, and for another day, he pretends this life belongs to him.