Martha withheld her smile in a vague effort to act indifferent; her entire frame shivered with excitement, her eyes lit up, yet her face held a stony composure of restraint. Ten long years have elapsed since she last met Richard, overwhelmed as she was deep inside, she would not let it show. Time has cast a strong impression on her, a decade of suffering has built enough forbearance on the young village girl that she once was. Today, she is a confident lady, tenacious to confront any challenge that the cruel society may carelessly heave upon her. Had this day been seven years back, she would have leapt at once upon Richard, yet today, she calmly held onto her seat. Only her victory shown through her radiant eyes. Richard, half dead, marred with a decade long military torture sunk on a bench before her. Victory came to Martha after all, in form of the decayed and defeated remains of the former spy, the breathing remains of her husband Richard. It was one such cold night ten years back, when Richard was captured in a foreign land for spying, this night was just as cold, Martha was a personification of this night: cold, doomed and desolate.
While Richard was being celebrated as a war hero, Martha felt her own share of chagrin for the war that she fought and tge hero that she had unwillingly become.