I awake to a world reshaped by silence. The tent is still, the heater's hum the only testament to life stirring in the frozen dawn. My shawl lies folded neatly on the chair beside our cot—his cot—untouched. I gather it in my arms and step outside into the pale glow of morning, steadying myself against the wind that whips stray snow into my hair. Somewhere beyond the ridge, Shashwat navigates a landscape as treacherous as the one inside my chest, and I clutch the locket at my throat to feel him near.
The clinic tent is already busy when I enter: medics exchanging reports, stretchers lined like silent witnesses, fresh recruits blinking in the harsh light. I move among them, offering tea and soft words. Each face is a reminder of why I endure this harsh place—why I stand where gunfire and grief collide. When the intake forms are done, I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and picturing his steady gaze, the strength in his shoulders, the promise in his voice: I carry you with me.
The camp runner arrives with two envelopes. The first bears the official insignia—orders rerouting supplies to the northern pass. The second, in familiar frost‑cracked handwriting, is from Shashwat. I retreat to a quiet corner and peel it open:
My Dearest Kavya,
Last night the wind sang a lullaby of gunmetal and ice. I thought of your voice cutting through the storm, guiding me back. We move tomorrow at first light into new territory—more dangerous, less forgiving. If this letter reaches you, know that every step I take is backward toward you.
Ever yours, in dust and frost,
Shash
My throat tightens. I press the letter to my heart and breathe, tasting tears on my lips. Around me, soldiers march past, oblivious to the war of emotion I wage inside. I tuck the letter into my journal and find a moment to write my reply:
My Lion,
Your words are embers that ignite my hope. I trace your footsteps in every fallen snowflake, waiting at our cherry grove for your return. Let this season of war end, and spring bloom again in your arms.
Always, Kavya
I seal it and hand it back to the runner, watching her hurry away into the gray dawn.
By mid‑morning, the sky has yielded to pale sun. I conduct a group session on "Silent Courage," urging soldiers to share their unspoken fears in writing. The paper fills with confessions—fear of never seeing home again, guilt for surviving, longing for comfort. I remind them that witnessing each other's truths is an act of bravery as vital as any charge across no man's land. When the session ends, the men file out with lighter shoulders, clutching their papers like lifelines. I gather the confessions, knowing they will remain in the box of shared grief I keep under my cot.
Late afternoon brings a surprise: Colonel Vikram Rajput, visiting on inspection. His presence is a thunderclap—memories of my first meeting with him, polishing medals for the sons he lost. He surveys the tent with the keen eye of a man who measures life in sacrifices. When he sees me, his stern features soften.
"Dr. Malhotra," he rumbles. "Your work here... it honors Shashwat more than any salute."
I bow my head. "I only try to keep him alive in words and care."
He steps closer, lowering his voice. "My son writes of you in every letter. He carries your face through frost and fire. Promise me you'll keep that fire burning."
I swallow the lump in my throat and meet his gaze. "I promise, sir."
He nods, placing a rough hand on my shoulder before moving on. I exhale, the weight of a father's blessing settling into my soul.
As dusk approaches, I seek the grove one last time before darkness. The lanterns are lit, their warm glow a beacon in the falling snow. I settle onto the stump, journal open, and write:
Tonight, I whisper my love into the cold, hoping it finds you beyond every ridge, every line of battle. Let these words carry my heart until we meet again.
A rustle in the pre‑night hush reveals Daiwik approaching. He stands a respectful distance away, scarf wrapped high, eyes reflecting his own exhaustion.
"Kavya," he says softly. "I brought tea."
I offer him a cup. We sit side by side in silence, the flame flickering between us. His presence is comfort and complication intertwined—an unspoken reminder of his own unvoiced confessions.
He sips, then meets my gaze. "He's alive," he states as fact, though my heart jumps.
"Yes," I reply. "He's alive, and he loves me across this ice."
He nods. "Write him back tonight."
"I will," I promise.
He studies the snowflakes drifting between us. "Someday this will all be memory," he says quietly. "And you'll carry these stories forward."
I look at him—friend, confidant, the man who loves me in another's absence—and know that these years will forge us in ways neither of us can yet imagine.
He stands, placing the cup on the stump. "Stay safe," he says.
"I will," I vow.
He steps back into shadow; I remain, the lantern's light my only guide.
As I rise to leave, a silhouette emerges at the grove's edge. My breath catches. Shashwat stands amid the falling snow, helmet in hand, eyes brighter than any lantern.
My heart leaps.
He crosses the distance with sure strides, each crunch of snow a promise. I press a hand to my mouth, tears streaming.
He reaches me, locket swinging at his chest. "Kavya," he breathes.
I fall into his arms, every moment of waiting washed away by the warmth of his body. He holds me as though he might never let go, and I press my face to his uniform, breathing him in.
The world around us dissolves—the storm, the war, the miles of ice. There is only the murmur of our heartbeats, the soft promise of reunited souls.
When we finally part, he cups my face. "I made it back," he says, voice raw with relief. "I kept my promise."
I press my forehead to his. "And I kept mine."
The wind stalls, as if holding its breath. Then, as the lanterns flicker on, we stand beneath the skeletal branches—two figures bound by love tested in frost and flame.
In that hushed moment, the war's shadow falls away, leaving only the ember of our reunion, glowing against the darkness.
He holds me as though I am the only warmth in this frozen world. My tears dampen his collar. He breathes, slow and steady, as though each inhale is a vow.
"I almost didn't make it back," he whispers, voice thick. "The winds were merciless, the patrol was attacked twice, and I thought—" He swallows the words. "I thought of you every moment."
I press my palms to his chest, feeling the quick drum of his heart. "I felt you here," I reply. "In every heartbeat I carried in my letters, in every blossom I imagined we would see again."
He smiles, though his eyes glint with unshed tears. "Sit with me?" he asks, nodding toward the stump where I wrote earlier.
We settle onto the weathered wood, bodies close enough to share warmth. Snow twirls around us, ghostly dancers in a silent ballet. He unwraps the locket from beneath his coat—Rishi's photo—and passes it into my hand.
"Him," he says softly. "He watches over me."
I trace the image of Rishi's boyish grin. "He watches over both of us," I say.
He slips the locket back into place. "I want you to have this," he murmurs. "Not just letters and locket, but this moment—our yes in the frozen dark."
Tears fill my eyes. "Yes," I breathe. "Yes, a thousand times yes."
He dips his head and kisses me—slower now, reverent, as if sealing our promise against the world's fury. His hands cup my face. "I love you," he says between soft breaths.
"I love you," I echo, voice trembling. "More than any battlefield or border."
Somewhere behind us, the camp stirs—lights flicker in the tents, distant voices carry. But here, beneath skeletal cherry branches, time stills.
He pulls back, forehead against mine. "We should go," he whispers. "They'll be looking for us."
I nod, though every fiber of me longs to stay. I stand, brushing snow from my coat. He follows, hand in mine. Together, we walk back to the clinic, boots crunching, breath warming the night.
Inside, warmth floods our cheeks. Medics glance up, surprised but respectful. Shashwat leads me to a quiet corner, away from patients and paperwork. He removes his pack, setting it down with a sigh.
"I'm here for the night," he declares, sliding off his coat.
I catch his gaze. "Then stay," I say, voice firm.
He steps closer, reading the plea in my eyes. "If I stay, will you promise to rest?"
I laugh softly. "It'll take more than a night's peace to break me."
He undoes his boots, then gathers me in his arms. I wrap my shawl around us both, holding him as though I might never let him go again.
Hours pass in whispered confessions. He describes the patrol—how he shielded a wounded soldier from sniper fire, how he thought of our first kiss beneath ceasefire skies. I tell him of every patient's progress, of the lieutenant who found calm through my exercises, of the medics who whispered his letters as prayers. Each story binds us tighter.
Midnight brings a lull. The clinic quiets; only the generator hum persists. He brushes his fingers through my hair. "I need your dreams tonight," he says. "So I know you're safe."
I place my head on his chest. "Then dream of blossoms in snow," I murmur.
He closes his eyes, breathing slow. "And I will dream of you."
We drift toward sleep, cocooned in each other's warmth, the locket resting against my heart. Outside, the storm's fury ebbs, leaving a hush that feels like grace.
Dawn returns with a gentle light. I awaken first, safe in his arms, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. For a moment, I bask in the miracle of his presence. Then duty calls—he must prepare for patrol; I must resume healing.
We rise quietly, dressing in the half‑light. He fits into his uniform as though he were born to it, yet tonight he wore civilian coat like a second skin, reminding me of the man beneath the soldier.
At the tent flap, we pause. Snowflakes fall like soft applause.
He bows his head. "I have to go," he says.
I press a hand to his chest. "I'll be here."
He lifts my hand to his lips, kissing it gently. "Remember our words."
"I will," I promise.
He steps into the morning, disappearing into the clinic's bustle. I watch him go until the flap closes, then gather my shawl and return inside.
All day, I work with renewed purpose. Each patient I treat, each soldier I guide, carries a trace of him—his compassion, his fierce courage, his promise. The locket rests against my heart, its weight a comfort.
When the mid‑afternoon sun warms the tent, I find a secluded moment by the cherry grove. The lanterns now hang silent, ice melting on metal cages. I settle onto the stump and remove my journal.
I write:
"He returned to me in the storm's white heart,
a promise etched in snow and steel.
In every patient saved, I see his face;
in every blossom yet to bloom, our future sealed.
I close the journal and press it to my chest. The world outside remains uncertain, but here—beneath skeletal branches—I carry the ember of our reunion.
And in that ember burns the certainty that, no matter how fierce the storm, we will stand together, waiting evermore for peace to find us both.