Dear Francine,

It feels it has been years since I last saw your beautiful face, and felt the warmth of your gentle hands. During these trying times I sometimes long to be in your embrace; with you around everything is better. Sadly, you're miles away awaiting this letter, while I'm stuck here in these dirty trenches listening to the rapid gunfire. I'm not going to lie, things are pretty grim here. The only thing that's kept me going is you; the hope that I will see you again, and hear your sweet voice. The battle is almost over, and I hope I will soon be sent home, where I know you will be waiting with your pungent kisses.

Love,

Stan

Francine lowered the letter with a smile, it had been months since Stan was commissioned overseas for the current war; she didn't know how many, she had lost track after the first three. Now he was coming home. Finally after all of those lonely nights, she would see the man she loved. Francine laid the parchment on her dresser where a small stack sat, she took the envelopes in her hands and thumbed through them; each was a letter Stan had sent while away. He wrote to her often, whenever he found a brief moment he made sure to compose a short letter to her, just so she would know he was safe. She would write back, telling him about her life back home, and how she couldn't wait to see him. Francine ended each letter telling him to be safe...

She set the letters back down in a small box with a kiss and walked out of their bedroom, passing her untouched hairbrush and bottles of makeup. She hurried downstairs, careful not to trip over her heels in her haste (Rodger and the kids were already at the airport waiting for her) Francine grabbed her keys off of the coffee table, and after a quick greeting from Klaus she threw open the door and stepped outside. The cool November breeze ran across her bare arms, causing her to shiver from the goosebumps forming. She rubbed her arms, she knew a dress and heels wasn't the appropriate attire for the season, however she didn't want to spend another second away from Stan. She sprinted to the car and turned up the heat, rubbing her palms to warm herself up. Placing the box in the passenger seat, she shifted the gear, pulled out of the driveway, and onto the road.

Throughout the drive to the airport all of her thoughts cycled around her husband; she could practically see his smiling face, and feel his broad muscles. Francine pressed her foot down harder on the pedal, ignoring the designated speed limit posted. Her heart was racing, she was only moments away from Stan's strong arms holding her. She parked in the first spot she saw. Leaving the doors unlocked, she grabbed the letters and headed toward the large doors, receiving strange looks from the other residents of Langley Falls. Her eyes set forward, she ignored them and reached for the door latch with her clammy hands, pulling them wide open.

"Stan!"

The numerous envelopes fell to the ground, her pink dress morphed into a sleek dark gown, a small net shielding her face. The stack of letters transformed into roses; the petals bleeding darkness. Francine stood in the doorway as still as a statue, her smile fading and her face a deathly white. Haley stood up from the chair she was sitting on and approached her wearing a black gown, her long hair pulled back into a neat bun. Francine looked down at the flowers lying in a heap beneath her feet, trying to hide her tears. Haley sent her a sympathetic look and guided her towards the rest of the flock constellated around the field. Roger and Steve sat in silence, Roger for the first time sober and showing respect- of course that didn't stop him from dressing up as one of his many alter egos.

He looked over at the blonde sitting beside him motionlessly with a solemn expression. Contrary to popular belief he deeply cared about the Smiths, despite the horrid way he often treated them. The alien touched her stiff shoulder, she didn't even flinch from his cold hand.

"How are you holding up, Franny?"

She said nothing, but continued to stare ahead with a glazed look in her eye at the coffin standing five feet from them that his comrades carried in; the American flag draped over it. This couldn't be happening, she had to be dreaming, he couldn't be dead, he just couldn't. He was Stan Smith; the gun hoe agent of the C.I.A, he couldn't die. He promised he would come back to her, why had she let him go? Why had she let Bullock send him to that god forsaken place?

Haley observed her mother attentively, from the far away look in her eyes she could see her mind was in another place, and maybe that's what she needed; to get away from everything that was unfolding.

"Leave her alone, Roger," she told him softly, directing her undivided attention back to the front.

He raised his finger and opened his mouth to say something in protest, the trumpets from the military band started before he could utter a syllable. Francine looked down at her tremulous hands as the tears now gelid from the cold relentlessly fell down her face. It was all too real, she remembered the day Stan left, she remembered it well; they had spent the last night together with all the love she could ever want as his way of making amends for everything he put her through.

Thinking back on it she realized a part of Stan knew he wouldn't return, maybe that's why their final kiss was longer than any other and much more passionate. Although he had promised her he would return with that confident smile of his, and she believed him, watching happily as he picked up his duffle bag and disappeared onto the plane. It was the last time she ever saw him. She dropped her head into her hands and wept, she wished she had known. Haley rubbed soothing circles around her back, while Steve sobbed loudly beside her.

The service began, but Francine paid no mind. Everything was happening around her, she was just in the background looking on from a distance, hardly able to register a breath. All she could do was stare ahead in disbelief and denial. This wasn't real, her husband was alive waiting for her, there was no possible way the remains in the casket were him. She couldn't believe it, she wouldn't.

Her eyes fell on a blurry figure as they approached the stand. She blinked the tears from her vision, immediately recognizing the man. Father Donovan tossed his burnt out cigarette to the side, and opened the book in front of him. He brought his hand to his mouth and coughed into it. After clearing his throat from the smoke, he spoke in a perfunctory monotone.

"Stan Smith was a great man, yada, yada, yada. Let us bow our heads and pray." The audience declined their heads, listening to what he had to say. "Lord, lift his soul and heal this hurt. The rest of his spiel was unheard to Francine, all she could hear was Stan's voice.

"This won't be our last meeting. I'll be back, I promise."

The simple sentence reverberated in her mind. He didn't come back; she knew that the day Bullock showed up on her doorstep with a letter in hand. He had informed her that the grenade had hit him in a second, maybe less than that, so he didn't suffer. Still, it didn't make it any easier for her to deal with the soul crushing blow that he wasn't coming home. What was worse was that his remains weren't even in tact; all that was left of her beloved husband were scattered pieces. A sob escaped her throat just thinking about it.

Greg shook his head sadly while bouncing his daughter Libby on his knee. "He's not coming home now," he spoke to Terry, whom only nodded in agreement, watching Francine with a sympathetic gaze.

The congregation stood up and began to belt out the most depressing song that she had ever heard, which was only a slap in the face to what she was already feeling. As the melancholic words faded away, Bullock approached her holding a piece of cloth in his hands; it was a flag.

Francine heard the steady steps of his shoes and lifted her head. He held it out to her, his face sincere. "On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service." Though his actions were honourable, to her it seemed like he was simply reciting lines from a script.

Francine nodded and slowly accepted it. "Thank you," she said softly, wiping away her tears with her hand. She gazed down at the flag with a quivering lip, Stan was always loyal to his country- sometimes more so than to her. She still loved him regardless, she always would, a part of her heart would always belong to Stan. Francine pressed the flag against her chest- the last thing she had left to remember him by. She felt her legs give out from underneath her, and sunk to her knees sobbing, her bitter tears soaking through the Stars and Stripes.

Haley stood up and knelt beside her. She looked on as her mother cried her heart out for her lost love, feeling helpless. Haley didn't know what to do to ease her mother's pain, she knew drugs wouldn't help; it would only numb the pain. She could only do the only thing she knew how to, Haley reached a hand out and rested it on Francine's shaking shoulder.

"Mom, it's okay."

"No, it's not!" Francine screeched. "He can't be gone, Haley," she shook her head sadly "he just can't."

"I know," she replied softly.

"No, you don't," Francine sniffled. She looked up at her and their eyes met; both lined with tears "he promised," she squeaked.

Haley sighed, she hated seeing her like this. "I know he did, no one knew this would happen."

She looked back at the soaked cloth in her hands "I can't be a widow," she cried with a shake of her head.

"I can't do it."

"I know it's hard, but we'll get through it," Haley assured. She wrapped her arms around her and held her close. Francine returned the hug, resting her head on her daughter's shoulder. Haley stared down at the grass trying to keep her tears from falling.

"We have to."

From his position in the crowd, Roger watched the pitiful scene unfold. He was grateful he had chosen a disguise with sunglasses, seeing Francine humiliate herself was hard for the alien to bare. He knew he had to get her to pull herself together for the sake of her children, but he couldn't just walk out and escort her back to her seat. He had a reputation to keep after all.

"You're making a scene!" He shouted obnoxiously, hoping she would get the message and scrape up whatever dignity she had left.

Francine looked around at the various eyes staring back at her. She pulled away from Haley and lowered her head, feeling the temperature in her cheeks rising. Closing her eyes, she felt another tear roll down her cheek. With a heavy sigh she brushed it away with the back of her hand. She slowly rose to her feet with a hiccup, walked back to her seat and sat down. Steve handed her a tissue which she gratefully accepted and daubed at her sore, irritated eyes. At that moment she was glad she hadn't bothered to wear makeup; because she knew it would be running down her tear stained face.

"I'm sorry," she sniffled, noticing all eyes were still on her. The group exchanged knowing looks and continued. Stan's comrades lined up and fired their riffles into the sky. Francine winced with each shot, feeling as if the bullet went into her heart, killing more of her soul with each strike. The tears came again as her shoulders shook from the sobs relentlessly pulsing through. She could hardly manage a breath through her cries. Roger put his arm around her trying to hush his friend. She fell onto his shoulder, and wept into his crisp suit.

The lone bugle played throughout the field. The mourners remained silent, watching with solem faces as the casket was carried to an open grave, and lowered inside. The broken family stood around the large gaping hole, gathering a handful of dirt, they each sprinkled it on top.

"Ashes to ashes, to dust to dust," they spoke in unison.

Bullock and the others raised their hands to their foreheads respectively in a salute to their fallen comrade. Then it was over, but the grief and agony would forever remain. Francine knelt in front of the grave, her face impassive as each sympathetic mourner offered their condolences.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"He was a great man"

"It'll get better, you'll see."

"I'm sorry it came to this"

"Well, at least he survived this long."

"He's in a better place."

The comments did nothing, only numbed the pain. As she gazed at the heap of dirt where the remains of her husband rested it finally dawned on her that this wasn't a dream; it was real, she had lost her husband. She didn't think she would, sure being a C.I.A agent was extremely perilous, but Stan always knew what he was doing, he always came home. This time he didn't, and now she was left to pick up the pieces. He would never see Steve graduate, he would never see his grandchildren, he would never see his son marry, it was all gone.

Francine rose to her feet, taking one last glimpse of the freshly buried grave she lowered her head and sniffled.

"Goodbye, Stan."

A final tear formed in the corner of her eye holding a recollection of Stan; when they first met, their wedding, Haley and Steve's birth, every moment they had spent together, a mixture of good and bad slid down her wet cheek, and plopped onto the dry ground. Like Stan, forever gone in an instant.