The sun hung low over the suburban street, spilling gold across trimmed lawns and the quiet hum of a neighborhood settling down for the evening. Harold Evans, eighty-five years old, walked slowly along the sidewalk with a grocery bag in one hand and his cane in the other. His back was bent but steady, and on his head rested a faded cap adorned with service pins: the emblem of the Korean War, a Purple Heart, and the insignia of his infantry division.

Neighbors often greeted him with a respectful nod. Most knew Harold’s story: the long nights he had endured overseas, the medals he never bragged about, the sacrifices that left scars on his body and his soul. Harold himself never asked for recognition. He only asked for peace.
But that evening, peace was shattered.
