Homefront Video -

Leo rewound the tape. Pressed play. Watched his mother laugh again. Watched himself as a child, untouched by grief. Watched his father’s eyes, finally looking at him instead of through him.

The tape ended. Static hissed like rain.

The tape felt heavier than plastic and magnetic ribbon should. Leo drove home, made instant coffee, and dug out an old VCR from the basement. The machine whirred to life with a reluctant groan. Homefront Video

The screen fizzed with static, then resolved.

Leo’s throat tightened. He leaned closer. Leo rewound the tape

The tape cut. New scene: Christmas morning, 1992. A small boy—Leo—wrestled with wrapping paper. Then another cut: Frank’s mother, baking pies, her hands floured to the wrists. Every few minutes, Frank would ask a quiet question: “What was the happiest day of your life?” or “What do you see when you close your eyes at night?”

Leo found it in his late father’s attic, wedged between a moth-eaten army jacket and a box of silver stars. His father, a taciturn man named Frank, had never spoken about the war. He’d died three weeks ago, leaving behind silences Leo had spent his whole life trying to fill. Watched himself as a child, untouched by grief

Frank chuckled, but it was wet. The camera shook.