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breath. And the cool air at your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
    Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for me. For we shall meet again.
    Sullivan Balue
     
    Tears rolled down Dalton's face, as they did every time he read the copy of the letter. Even though he knew the words by heart, he read them again, just to see the handwriting, to bring back the memories. Marie had sent him a copy of the letter when he was deployed to combat. It was written by a Union officer from Rhode Island to his young wife a week before the Battle of the First Bull Run. He was killed in that first major battle of the Civil War.
    Marie had known Dalton had a fascination with the War Between the States, brother against brother in savage fighting. A war with many causes, some noble, some not so noble, but in Dalton's opinion a good war-as good as any war could be—given the root issue of slavery and the preservation of the United States. A good war-Dalton shook his head. He wished he had served in good wars, but he doubted all had been. Even in the Civil War the soldiers had been the ones to pay the price of the folly of those who led them. The vast majority of Southern soldiers were poor farmers who didn't own slaves; in the Northern army, the rich bought their way out of service, hiring the poor to replace them in the ranks. The cause may have been noble, but the methods weren't, and it was the foot soldier who died.
    Marie had waited for him through all his deployments. He'd fought in many places. And now, most recently, the strangest battle of all, as a Psychic Warrior assigned to the highly classified Bright Gate Project. He had helped destroy a rogue Russian Psychic Warrior who had threatened the world with nuclear destruction. In the end, it had turned out as all previous battles had, with man against man.
    Even this last fight though, had been bittersweet. He had lost most of the team he had led, and the opponent, a Russian named Feteror, had turned on his own country due to the barbaric treatment he’d endured, being enslaved to a computer, his body surgically whittled down to the mind and little more. When Dalton had learned the true nature of Feteror's condition, he'd had a greater understanding of the Russian's actions.
    There was another aspect to the letter, though, that had been an integral part of their marriage: their inability to have children. They had discussed adoption, but with all his deployments it had never seemed like quite the right time and the years had gone by. He felt as if he had taken everything from Marie and given her little in return.
    Dalton turned his face to the east, toward the valley she had loved, the letter in his hands. "I never thought you would be gone first," he whispered.
    He kicked a rock, sending it tumbling down the scree and boulders to the west. Anger stirred, followed by guilt. And then something else touched his mind, the gentlest of touches, like a single snowflake landing on warm skin and vanishing quickly. It was so brief he wondered if it had been real.
    Dalton closed his eyes. The wind gusted. He folded the letter and slipped it in the lid, then picked up the box. The strange feeling came again, stronger, and this time he had no doubt. Thirty-two years of marriage, even with all his deployments, had built a bond between him and his wife that not even death could completely sever. He'd felt this before, during particularly quiet moments on a deployment. And he had seen her spirit, her essence, when he visited her in the hospital while on the virtual plane as a Psychic Warrior. He had let her go then, let her out of her misery.
    He could sense her again. She was here.
    Sergeant Major Dalton opened his eyes and smiled, guilt and anger forgotten. "Marie, I feel you."
    He opened the lid and the wind took the ashes, blowing them out over the valley. He watched them until there was nothing left to see.
    “I’ll always love you."
    Dalton turned to leave, but