London, November 1948.

It has already been three years since the war ended.

Bricks are being stacked atop ruined buildings once more, and closed shops are hanging their signs one by one. People clutching ration books line up from early morning, and young children who know nothing of war run through alleys still bearing the scars of bombings.

London is moving forward, however slowly, but Henry Caldwell's time remains stuck in Normandy, 1944, refusing to budge.

He lost his left leg in that chaotic hell that day. Not only that, he lost his men, and he lost his adjutant, Thomas. And he alone survived. Thrown into this miserable reality, all alone.

Now, four years later, the traces of the elegant, high-class man who once wore a crisp suit to work at a law firm have scattered like smoke, nowhere to be found.

Disheveled black hair, a jaw rough with several days of stubble, and dark shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep. A worn overcoat is thrown haphazardly over a crumpled shirt. In one hand he holds a cane, and in the other, a bottle of liquor inside a brown kraft paper bag.

Tap.

The tip of the cane strikes the wet pavement in time with Henry Caldwell's footsteps. One step, then another.

Tap.

The step he takes, dragging his left prosthetic, is as slow as his frozen time. There is no sense of hurry in his gait, as if he has no lingering attachment to this world.

The street is a mix of people returning from work and those heading home with groceries. Someone laughs, someone talks about tomorrow, but Henry passes through them with a blank expression. Like a dead man walking among the living.

Then, he suddenly senses a presence directed at him and stops. Damnably, his five senses, sharpened in the war, react keenly even at a time like this.