I woke to the low murmur of wind through the canvas, carrying a chill that crept beneath my robe and settled in my bones. The tent felt impossibly large without him; the cot beside mine remained untouched, a silent testament to absence. Dawn's pale light filtered through frosted windows, illuminating the scattered letters on my desk—Shash's last dispatch unfinished, open to the wind that carried it northward. I rose with a tightness in my chest, gathering my shawl and boots, steeling myself for another day of patient confessions.
By 0600 hours, the clinic tent was alive with activity: stretchers being arranged, medics counting supplies, officers shuffling through intake forms. I moved through the bustle like a ghost, offering nods and practiced smiles. Each "Good morning, Doctor" felt hollow until I found the courage to anchor myself in purpose: to heal, to listen, to wait.
My first patient was Sepoy Arjun "Rookie" Mehta, now recovering in a cot by the heater. He opened his eyes as I approached, fingers twitching as though grasping memories of that last ambush. I demonstrated breathing drills—breathe in for four counts, hold two, exhale four—and guided him through naming objects in the tent: stretcher, lantern, mug, locket. His pulse steadied. "Better?" I asked.
He nodded, voice hushed. "Thinking of her helped." He touched the silver map pendant at my throat—a gift from Shash. I mouthed, "She's waiting," and he closed his eyes, a flicker of peace on his face.
By mid‑morning, letters from Kupwara trickled in: half‑smudged lines, calls for strength, stanzas of longing. I read them at my desk as new patients arrived—officers haunted by nightmares, drivers ravaged by guilt, war widows clutching photographs of lost husbands. Each letter anchored me to him: "The snow is relentless," one read. "I carve your name in frost but cannot find you." Another spoke of midnight patrols under a sky too wide, too empty without my laughter. I folded each letter around my heart before filing them into my satchel.
At noon, I led a group on "Finding Light in the Darkness." We sat in a half‑circle of chairs, ragged lanterns hanging overhead. I shared a story of a fox I once saw—curious and brave on the ice—prompting soldiers to name moments of unexpected joy. One lieutenant spoke of a hot meal shared with a stranger; another admitted relief at a quiet sunrise. Then I asked, "What sparks keep you going?" Answers tumbled: a letter from home, a prayer in the dark, the hope of a name on the locket around my neck. When we finished, soldiers left with lighter shoulders, and I felt the first stir of warmth in my own chest.
After lunch, a surprise visitor arrived: Colonel Vikram Rajput, making rounds despite retirement. His presence carried the weight of medals and grief alike. He offered a curt nod. "I heard you're doing good work."
I bowed my head. "We do what we must."
He studied me, eyes softening. "He writes often, you know. His letters... they speak of you." He paused, then added, "So do I."
I glanced at the stack of letters. "I'll keep them safe."
He placed a hand on my shoulder—brief, reverent. "Then keep him alive in those words." And with that, he turned and left, leaving me to wonder if a father's blessing could carry the same weight as a lover's vow.
The afternoon sun slipped toward evening as I finished intake interviews. My final visitor was a young corporal shaken by his first night on duty—wide eyes, rattled nerves, trembling hands. He asked if healing sometimes failed. I shared the truth I'd learned: that wounds can leave scars, but scars remind us we survived. He nodded and left clutching his journal like a lifeline.
I collapsed onto the bench outside the tent, breathless from the day's tide of confessions. The sky turned rose and violet—colors I once associated with hope. I pulled Shash's locket from my pocket and traced the photograph of Rishi. Tears slipped unbidden. The wind rustled cherry-blossom flags overhead, though the trees were bare. It felt like a signal: that even where life seems gone, memory endures.
At dusk, I found Daiwik at the supply depot, loading up a medkit. His face was tired, eyes shadowed beneath his helmet. He offered a small nod. "Long day?"
I managed a smile. "Another hundred stories of war."
He set down the pack. "Let me help."
We worked side by side—bandaging wounds, restocking supplies—wordless in our shared fatigue. Then, as the last patrol filed out, he spoke: "I found your letters in my pack."
My heart lurched. "What did he say?"
He met my gaze. "He said... 'Your words are my compass when the world goes dark.'"
I closed my eyes against the swell of emotion. "He's alive," I whispered. "Still fighting for me."
Daiwik's hand brushed mine. "He's the lion for a reason."
I opened my eyes. "And I'll keep waiting."
He nodded, then stepped back. "I've orders. Another shift at the field hospital. Be safe."
"You too," I said. "Promise me you write your own letters home."
He smiled wryly. "I will." Then he turned and vanished into a convoy of trucks.
Night descended like a shroud. I returned to the cherry grove, now illuminated by a single lantern. I lit a candle and placed it at the base of the stump, the flame trembling in the breeze.
I wrote in my journal:
"Tonight, I whisper my love into the dark. May it travel faster than any patrol, finding you wherever you stand."
I sealed the page and tucked the journal into my satchel alongside his letters. As I trudged back to the tent, my heart felt both heavy and hopeful—a paradox I had learned to carry.
In the hush before sleep, I heard the distant drone of engines. My pulse quickened. I pressed a hand to my chest, imagining his form stepping off a truck, silhouette against the moon.
But dawn had yet to break... and war does not pause for hope.
I closed my eyes, repeating my vow: I will wait. I will write. I will love him across any distance. And in that promise, I found the strength to face whatever tomorrow would bring.