They spent over a year apart, unsure whether the other was alive or dead.
When the Regime fell, they had no way to get in touch with each other. He returned to their hometown to look for them. He found his way through fields riddled with unexploded shells, mines waiting to be discovered by innocents, skeletons of long-empty villages, back to the city that had been forcefully evacuated years before.
For a year, he searched. He asked. He waited for answers and lived in fear of receiving them.
They were in a camp on the border, safe and somewhat less near-starving than they had been. They wondered, and worried, and hoped.
Once reunited, there was relief. And after that initial embrace, they found that they were no longer in limbo, that they no longer had to wonder where they would go or what they would do. They would be together.
They had survived. They would mourn those who had not.
They would go on. They would celebrate on behalf of those who could not.
They would be together.
narinda heng 
And I’m back! Sorry about the lack of the mid-month comment last month. I was sorely lacking in both internets and interwebs. To those of you new to the session, I think it’s all pretty self-explanatory. Everyone gets a comment at least once a month. It’s my gift to you:
I guess I caught the tail end. I’m trying to figure out if I would call this a happy ending, and based on what they probably went through, I’m going to say it qualifies. Not crazy happy, no. There is no crazy happy in the midst of genocide. You know, the saddest thing is I can probably think of half a dozen countries this could have taken place in, just off the top of my head. Perhaps we’ll never learn. Or maybe we will and the next generation will have to learn the hard way as well. Ai ya.