Ghost from the Second World War

In the mist-veiled lanes of Branscombe, Devon, where the sea murmurs below chalky cliffs and the fields remember every footstep, the boundary between past and present quietly thins. It was here, in the hush of an autumn afternoon not long after the Second World War, that a woman named Clara Henshaw encountered something—or someone—that defied the passage of time. Her story, whispered over decades in tearooms and by firelight, is not one of terror, but of love echoing across the veil. For Branscombe holds many memories, but none so hauntingly beautiful as the day a grieving widow met the ghost of her husband on a quiet country road, and for one fleeting moment, the war gave something back.