He'd always slept well, had Colin.
When Colin left the village a boy in uniform, with the other boys in uniform, his parents clapped. All the parents coated their fear with pride, it tasted better that way.
When Colin returned, three years had passed. His Dad was grey and lines pencilled his face where before no artist had canvassed. His mother spoke again after months of quiet: she had dressed herself in silence every morning until his return, silence being the outward garb of inner loss.
He slept well, Colin.
Like those who sent him to war, he slept well.