He didn’t talk much when he moved into the facility. Kept mostly to himself, polishing his medals like they were the only things left connecting him to the world.

We called him Sergeant Mullins.

Every Fourth of July, he’d get dressed in full uniform—hat, badges, the whole deal—even though the walk from his room to the lobby winded him.

But this year, something was different.

He requested to visit the “Wall of Heroes” in the main hall. He said he just wanted to pay respects.

We rolled him down slowly, past the stars-and-stripes posters, past the framed portraits. He nodded at each one. Said the names under his breath. Until we reached his own photo.

That’s when he turned away.

Wouldn’t even glance at it.

“Sir?” I asked.

He clenched the walker tighter. “That picture doesn’t belong up there.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated. Then whispered, “Because there’s a name missing. And I was the only one who made it out of that ridge.”

And then he pulled something from his pocket.

A letter. Yellowed, sealed… never opened.