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November, 1922. The man at the end of Rose Lane stood still and silent. The leaves of the elm trees on either side of the road twitched and fluttered in the morning breeze, shaking off raindrops that had fallen before sunrise. The man, it seemed, had also been struck by the rain. His coat was weighed down and saggy looking over his drooping shoulders, his hair was matted and tangled, unkempt and long over his eyes. He was tall, with a strong jaw and a handsome face. He broke his statue-like slump and cupped his face in his hands, and sighed, fingers rubbing at his temples. Why had he come here? His hands fell from his face and swung at his sides, heavy and aching. He had watched both the sunset and the sunrise, laid under the stars, and dreamt awake, fearing had he gone to sleep, he might never wake up. He had cried out, wishing that sleep would come to him, and let him lie peacefully. Even now, the sound of guns infiltrated his ears and the smell of the cold wet mud crept up his nose, pulling him back into the trench. Rest! What an inviting prospect! To sleep, and feel not fear or guilt, but peace. Being not comforted by rest, but drowned in it, he had tried to sleep, failing miserably. He was no stranger to failure; this was the reason he stood now at the end of Rose Lane. Four years had passed since November 11, 1918. He had troubled himself for too long. The letter in his pack pocket felt a bigger burden than ever. He had to get rid of it, then perhaps his guilt, and the nightmares, would cease. But he could not be sure.

Northern France, May 1916. Trenches, twisting and deep through the earth were rife with young men, sat on sacks and woods, laughing and joking with their comrades. Honourable and becoming young men. Fighting, and dying, for their country. One such man, Private John Mason, was sat intently. With pen and paper on his lap, he scribbled viciously across the page. He wrote of feelings that a piece of paper could not articulate and dreams that expressed to anyone, might not come true. He was naïve, only just eighteen, and set about to make his mother proud. In significant detail, he told of gunshots and barbed wire, fallen comrades and new friends.