A little story (true) from a hundred years (almost), passed on to me by word of mouth by someone whose identity my memory has lost.

A man and wife lived in the house which I owned much later. He was called away to war and for four whole years he disappeared, she didn't hear a word.

I guess he was no writer.

He found himself released, no longer mired in foreign soil. War was won, the only thing to be done was go home once more.

He sent a telegram from the port, I'm coming home real soon. But he arrived before the post, and surprised his wife, who probably said something like,

Why my dear, did you not write?