AN: I have way too many feelings about these characters, wow

Despite all the fanfare, despite all the celebration, Donny had no one to come home to. No friends. No family. Everyone was glad that the war was over, but it didn't matter to anyone that Donny Novitski had come home. It didn't make a difference.

A part of him had hoped that his father would be there to meet him at the train station. That maybe forcing himself through hell would have finally made the man proud, despite the fact that he never really tried to raise Donny in the first place. Of course, that didn't happen.

He simply stepped off of the train, and one of the other guys from his division, James Morris, gave him a simple clap on the back. "See you around, Nova."

Donny had nodded. "Yeah, see you." They both knew that they'd probably never see each other again.

He looked around. There were banners all over the place, with bold letters saying things that he was already tired of. 'Welcome Home'. 'Proud to be Americans'. 'Thank you for your service'. Those words were supposed to mean something to him, but they didn't. Not really.

The crowds had started to separate as people reunited with their loved ones. Husband and wife, father and son, or even just friends who hadn't seen each other in years. There were joyous shouts from all directions as people re-connected with their families, as hoped returned to the country.

Yet, Donny had no one. Just a photo album in his bag with pictures of a friend he'd never see again, and the knowledge that, somewhere in this city, there was a woman named Julia Trojan who was having a worse day than anyone else.

No one paid any attention to him as he made his way out of the station. He walked all the way to his apartment, and no one so much as glanced in his direction. His homecoming didn't affect anyone's lives.

When he unlocked and opened his door, though, he saw the first things that felt familiar. His piano was sitting in the middle of the room. He straightened up when his gaze landed on it, closing the door behind him. He dropped his bag on the floor and headed straight for the instrument.

He hadn't played in a long time, but from the instant he sat down on the bench, he knew that wouldn't make a difference. This was something he knew. It was here, waiting for him, and it was something he would never forget. The feeling of it was so strong, he could almost block out the hell that he'd just been through. If he tried hard enough, he could pretend it never happened.

He could start playing, and nothing else mattered. It was the only thing he needed, and everything else faded away.