The scent of charcoal smoke and lighter fluid 

mingled with the crisp morning air, pulling me back to countless Memorial Day gatherings. Each year, the backyard transformed into a stage for laughter, overcooked burgers, and stories spun under a deepening twilight. But this year, as I surveyed the familiar scene - checkered tablecloth, worn badminton net, deflated volleyball - a different kind of memory surfaced.

My father, a man built for quiet strength, 

never spoke much about his service. During those past Memorial Days, a shadow of a different life flickered in his eyes as he watched our games. One year, with the picnic deafening, those glimpses coalesced into a story I craved to hear.

I rummaged through the attic, 

unearthing a dusty photo album. Its worn leather cover held decades of faded smiles, crackling with the echoes of time. There they were - younger versions of my parents, faces aglow with a youthful exuberance dampened by a war raging across the world.