When you came to me from the war, we had little time, less than two days. I didn't know what I could ask you and what I should keep quiet about. You tried to be the same as always, but the war in your eyes cut the air in the kitchen, was sharp, smelly, scary. It slipped through your eyes, in your chewed words, in your sudden movements, in your nervous fingers. When I asked you, you answered: “I don't want to take it home. I'll leave it there. You don't need to know this.”