The morning air tasted of metal and distant gunfire. I woke to the hum of generators, the low murmur of soldiers stirring for duty. Outside our tent, frost had thawed into slush, but the wind still cut like a blade. I rose on trembling legs, wrapping myself in my shawl before stepping into the chill. Somewhere out there, Shashwat was waking to the same sky, marching toward the unknown, and I carried his last letter like a lifeline against the cold.
I moved through the clinic in near‑silence, assembling my kit: notebooks, pens, a small vial of peppermint oil for panic attacks, and the stack of letters he'd sent. Each envelope bore the jagged edge of frost, a promise burned into paper. I tucked them into my coat pocket, close to my heart, then took my place at the intake table. One by one, fresh faces appeared—officers with haunted eyes, each carrying untold stories from the front. I greeted them, offered tea, guided them through the first steps of trauma care. Yet my mind danced on the words he'd written the night before:
"Kavya, the stars here seem closer yet more distant than ever. I trace constellations in the ice, mapping our memories across a sky I cannot share with you... until I find my way back."
By mid‑morning, the tent buzzed with activity. The ration truck rumbled in, supply officers barked orders, wounded soldiers moaned on stretchers. I barely registered the chaos until a soft knock at the flap caught my attention. I turned to see Captain Daiwik Khanna standing there, uniform dusted with snow, eyes heavy with concern.
"Kavya," he said, stepping inside. "Mind if I—?"
He didn't finish. I waved him to a chair. His presence was a warm ember in the frost, but also a reminder of the promises we'd made and the secrets he bore.
"I heard what happened last night," I said, voice tight. "Shelling near the ridge?"
He nodded, running a hand through his hair. "They hit one of our observation posts. Minor casualties, nothing we couldn't handle. You were out there?"
I closed the ledger before me. "I was. He told me to stay back, but..." My voice trailed off. I touched the locket at my throat. "I couldn't."
He studied me, sorrow and admiration mingling in his gaze. "You're braver than you know."
I shook my head. "I'm reckless. And terrified."
He reached forward, placing a steadying hand on mine. "That letter he wrote—did you answer it?"
I withdrew the stack from my pocket. "This morning." I showed him the envelope. "Sent it with the runners."
He nodded. "Good. Keep sending your voice into the silence."
I met his eyes. "I will." He stood, lingering. "Anything I can do?"
I bit my lip. "Be safe."
He gave a small, rueful smile. "I'll try."
He left before I could say more. The tent door whispered shut, and I felt suddenly alone—yet oddly fortified by his visit. Even in the absence of Shashwat, we formed a fragile triad of love, loss, and loyalty.
The afternoon dragged on. I led a session on "Maintaining Hope in Isolation," guiding soldiers through visualization exercises: imagining letters arriving from home, picturing voices carried on the wind. As I spoke, I pictured Shashwat's face, his grin beneath helmet straps, the way he brushed snow from his brow just to find mine. The soldiers closed their eyes, breathing deeply. I touched their shoulders when they shook, whispered assurances I scripted for myself: "He'll come back."
When the session ended, I collected the sheets of paper—heartfelt prayers to absent loved ones—and stored them in a battered box. A young lieutenant lingered, eyes red. He approached with his folded paper.
"Mom, I'm sorry for leaving. I hope you know I'll come home to you."
He looked at me, voice trembling. "I hope so too."
I offered him a smile. "Write it again tomorrow." He nodded and left. I touched my locket. Tickets to my own heart fluttered in my fingers: his name, my vow.
Evening fell, cold and unkind. Lanterns glowed at each tent entrance, and the wind carried the distant drone of engines. I retreated to the cherry grove once more, seeking the hush that had become my refuge. The trees stood as ghosts, petals long gone, branches bare against the sky. I settled on the stump, opened my journal, and began to write—not to him, but for him:
"Tonight, I trace your absence in the hush of frozen blossoms. I send my words into the wind, hoping they find you under a foreign sky."
A sound drew me from the page: footsteps on wood. I looked up to see Shashwat standing at the edge of the grove, silhouette framed by lantern light and snow. My heart leapt—how many nights had I dreamed this arrival?
I rose, breath catching, as he crossed the gap between us. Closer now, I saw the traces of exhaustion: lines at his eyes, snow dusting his shoulders, shoulders bowed by the day's burdens.
"I didn't expect you so soon," he said, voice soft.
I pressed a hand to my lips. "I'm sorry. I—I left the tent door open."
He reached for my hand, fingers warm. "I followed your scent." He touched my cheek. "I had to see you."
I closed my eyes against the ache. "I thought I lost you."
He drew me into his arms. "I'm here." He held me as though letting go would be impossible.
We stood in the grove until the wind whispered us numb. Then, almost without thought, I lifted my face to his. His eyes met mine, storm and longing colliding. Our lips met in a kiss that spoke of weeks spent apart—fear, hope, desperation. He tasted of gunpowder and longing; I tasted of tears and survival. Around us, the world froze; only our breath wove warmth between us.
When we finally parted, he buried his face in my hair. "I'll never leave you again," he murmured.
I pulled back, searching his eyes. "Promise?"
He caught my hands. "I promise."
For a heartbeat, it felt enough. But war's shadow always loomed. He stepped back, brushing snow from his coat.
"I have to report," he said, voice trembling.
I nodded, swallowing. "Go."
He paused at the tent edge. "I'll be back at dawn."
I watched him vanish into the night, each step carrying him away from me. Alone again, I pressed my palms to my knees, tears falling onto cold earth.
Before I left, I opened my journal one more time:
"In the pause between gunshots, we found our forever. Now I wait for dawn to bring you back."
I closed it and walked back to the clinic, each footstep echoing my heart's vow: I would wait, I would write, I would love him across any distance—no matter how frozen, how far, how uncertain.