The letter arrived on a morning painted in soft rose and steel gray, slipping through the flap of my tent like a quiet promise. I was consulting with a sepoy—teaching him breathing techniques to stem the tremors of panic—when the camp runner appeared, hands tucked inside his parka, crinkling envelope pressed between fingers. He waited, shy and awkward, as though unsure couriers should ever witness their own deliveries.
I finished guiding the sepoy through a grounding exercise—counting breaths, naming five things we could see, four we could hear, three we could touch, two we could smell, one we could taste—and watched as calm settled in his eyes. Then I turned to the runner.
"Dr. Malhotra?" he said, voice muffled by wool. I nodded. He offered the envelope like a gift too fragile to hold. "For you, ma'am. From Major Rajput."
My heart stuttered. I tore it open with careful fingers, mindful of the camp's prying eyes. The paper was thick, the edges singed by frost, and his handwriting—steady, deliberate—spilled across the page:
My Dearest Kavya,
This morning, the mountains were silent. Even the wind dared not stir the snow.
Every breath here tastes of steel and longing. I write to you because in each letter I send, I leave a piece of myself.
Last night, I watched the stars fade behind clouds we can't outrun. I wondered if somewhere you watched the same sky, wondering if I still exist beyond the horizon.
I carry your voice with me—an echo against the glacier's roar. It reminds me there's life beyond orders, beyond duty.
Stay safe, my heart. I will return to you, if only in the space between these lines.
—Shash
I folded the letter against my chest and closed my eyes, tasting tears that felt both warm and cruel against the cold. The sepoy—now calm—looked at me expectantly. I tucked the letter inside my coat and nodded.
"Continue with your exercises," I said softly. "You're doing well."
He bowed and returned to the clinic interior. Outside, the camp resumed its half-hearted bustle, but I lingered under the flapping canvas, letting Shash's words anchor me. Every line was a brush against my soul, reminding me that he was alive, breathing, thinking of me even as he fought to protect strangers.
Throughout the morning, letters arrived in drips and drabs—some yellowed with age, others crisp with fresh ink. Each bore the same careful signature: —Shash. Each offered fragments of his life on the glacier: frostbitten fingers scribbling poems beside flickering lanterns, patrols through ice‑cracked trenches, moments of quiet terror before shelling. One described a fox that got too close to their camp, curious and brave, like the day I first met him. Another detailed a minor avalanche that had buried supplies before the men dug them out by torchlight, bone‑cold steel against human flesh.
By midday, my satchel bulged with envelopes. I found a secluded nook between two supply crates and sat to read them all, one after another. Tears dried on my cheeks as I savored each word—his longing for warmth, his confession of fear, his fierce devotion disguised as duty. I discovered lines I'd never heard, poems he burned rather than send:
"In the hush of white,
I carve your name in my breath,
hoping the ice remembers."
The avalanche letter ended with a question: "Do you dream of snow, too? I dream of your arms."
I pressed my palm to the poem, closing my eyes against the ache that bloomed in my chest. Dreaming of his arms was all I did—night after night—until sleep held me in its cold embrace.
That afternoon, a brief lull in duties allowed me to write back. I found my pen, the last sheet of stationary, and poured out my heart:
My Brave Lion,
I close my eyes and see your face in every flake. Each time the wind howls, I imagine your voice calling my name. Here, the clinic hums with life and loss, and I carry your courage into every moment I save.
Wait for me where cherry blossoms dream of spring. I will bridge these miles with words until I can cross them in your arms.
Yours, always,
Kavya
I sealed the letter with a kiss of wax and handed it to the runner. As he trudged away, the envelope tucked into his parka, I felt the first real sliver of hope since he'd left. Each letter was a lifeline, each reply a tether between us.
But hope in war is a fragile thing. That evening, as the camp settled into frost‑tinged twilight, I watched the supply trucks groan over the ridge—returning men and goods, reminders that even in ceasefire, life moved on. I longed to be aboard one of those trucks, to feel the jostle of rough roads and the promise of home.
Later, under a sky turning indigo, I led a support group of PTSD survivors—soldiers and civilians alike. We practiced writing letters as therapy—completing sentences like "I wish you knew..." and "I am afraid that..." twenty times over. Their confessions tumbled onto paper: fear of returning to broken families, guilt for surviving ambushes, longing for love left behind. Each sentence was an act of trust, an echo of my own silent confession.
After the session, a young corporal approached, envelope in hand. "I wrote to my wife," he said, voice thick. "I hope she remembers me." He looked at my own stack of letters. "You write a lot."
I smiled, though my throat was tight. "Words are how we stay alive."
He nodded, turning away into the gathering night.
Alone, I retrieved Shash's letters once more, reading them under lantern light. The final one—delivered well past midnight—began:
"My dearest, tomorrow we move further north. The border is nearer than ever. This letter may not find you in time. Know that each ..."
The sentence cut off—no signature, no flourish—just a half‑written confession drowned in uncertainty. My breath caught. Tomorrow they move north. He might be beyond reach.
I pressed the open envelope to my lips, tears spilling. Each letter was a promise and a prayer, and now my prayers felt desperate: to reach him before he crossed into danger.
I folded the letter against my heart. In the silence, I whispered to the night sky:
"Come back to me."
The wind faltered, as though listening—yet in war, the world offers no answers, only the rustle of frozen ground.
And so I waited, clutching his words, waiting for dawn to bring him home... or to take him from me forever.