I awake to the faint clatter of shovels against frozen earth, a sound both jarring and oddly hopeful. Dawn's first light slips through the tent flaps in pale ribbons, illuminating the frost‑covered ground outside. I wrap my shawl tight, then step into the chill to join the morning ritual: clearing pathways, tending the generator, preparing tea for the first wave of arrivals.
Each breath tastes of ice and anticipation. Somewhere beyond the ridge, Shashwat stands vigil in a world of gunmetal and snowdrifts, carrying our love in the locket at his throat. I press my palm to my heart, imagining his steady pulse, drawing strength from the memory of his words: I will return.
Inside the clinic, medics bustle beneath fluorescent lights. I check supplies—bandages, antiseptic, notebooks for trauma journals—and find Daiwik already at his station. He looks up, eyes tired but warm. He holds out a small envelope. "From him," he says. The courier's handwriting bears the weight of hours, maybe days.
I slide the envelope from his hand, breath catching. Excusing myself, I retreat to the intake room's corner. Inside, I unfold the letter:
My Dearest Kavya,
The pass was a gauntlet of ice and fire. We lost good men, their courage carving leads in the snow. I held the ridge with my brothers, but my mind was with you—your laughter echoing in every gust. Tonight, under a sky as cold as steel, I swear anew: I will cross any line to come home to you.
Always yours, forever mine,
Shash
My vision blurs. I press the paper to my lips as though tasting his breath. The world shifts—rows of cots, blinking monitors, the low hum of the heater—anchor me back to purpose. I fold the letter carefully, placing it inside my journal and sliding it into the pocket closest to my heart.
Returning to the main tent, I find the first wave of wounded: a corporal with shrapnel to the thigh, a driver whose hands tremble as though still gripping a steering wheel, and a young medic who can't stop reliving the blast. I guide them through breathing drills, then stitching, then ration packs—every act a promise that healing remains possible.
Mid‑morning, I'm pulled aside by Lieutenant Mehta—Sepoy Arjun's younger brother, now back from leave. His eyes are haunted. He holds a scrap of paper: a line from Shash's letter, scribbled in haste. "He wrote this for me," the lieutenant says, voice cracking. "Said it was for you, too." He presses the paper into my hand. I read the fragment: "...your laughter echoing in every gust..." and kneel to meet his gaze. "He carries all of us," I tell him. He bows, placing his hand over his heart, and returns to the cots with renewed resolve.
By noon, the clinic tent overflows. I see familiar faces from weeks past—soldiers I thought might never smile again. Each offers a reluctant nod as I pass, gratitude glinting in their eyes. I pause at a small table where I keep a wooden box of relics: the silver map pendant, a bullet casing, the frostbitten coin. I open it and add Shash's latest letter, then close the box, sealing his presence among these tokens of sacrifice.
Afternoon brings a session on "Letters of Legacy"—the survivors write final messages they hope never to need. A corporal writes to his unborn child: "Know your father's love carried him through the darkness." A medic writes to her sister: "If I do not return, tell mother I found hope in the midst of chaos." When it's my turn, I guide them to begin with "My Dearest..." and leave the rest unwritten, trusting that love can fill the blank spaces. The tent hums with the quiet courage of so many hearts laid bare.
As the session ends, I find a moment alone at the tent flap. Snow flurries drift in, settling like confetti at my feet. I press my palm to the wood and whisper, "I believe in you." The wind rises, a soft roar that feels like an answer.
A knock at the flap draws me inside—this time, it's Colonel Rajput, storm-gray eyes cradling unspoken grief. He offers a nod of respect. "They tell me you keep his spirit alive."
I smile through tears. "Only because he writes me into every letter."
He studies the relic box. "Thank you." His voice cracks. "For waiting."
I bow my head. "I will."
He turns and slips into the shadows, leaving me with the weight of a father's hope and my own vow to stand firm.
Late afternoon, the routine breaks again—spotters report movement on the ridge, a flare of rifles, the telltale pop of sniper fire. A hush falls. I step outside to see soldiers gathering, eyes intent on the horizon. I clutch my shawl, heart pounding as I scan the distant ridgeline. My breath comes fast—fear and longing warring in my chest.
Then I see him: a figure perched atop the ridge, rifle raised, silhouette framed by smoke and snow. My heart leaps. He stands tall, scans the valley below, then lowers his weapon and raises his hand in a soldier's salute—an avatar of steadfast courage. I drop to my knees, tears blurring my vision, and return the salute with all the love in my broken heart.
Moments later, he vanishes from sight, swallowed by the ridge's rocky outcroppings. The soldiers below file back, murmurs of relief mingling with respect. I rise, drawing strength from the proof of his survival—proof I will carry with me, come what may.
As dusk falls, I write one final entry in my journal before sealing the day's letters:
"Tonight, I stand beneath falling snow, bearing witness to your courage. May each salute echo across the distance, guiding you back into my arms."
I close the journal, lamp's glow flickering, and press it to my heart. The day ends with an ember of hope still burning—an ember I guard until dawn returns, and the waiting begins anew.
Night swallows the clinic in cold quiet. Only the generator's hum and distant watchtower beacon punctuate the darkness. I linger at the tent flap a moment longer, fingertips brushing frost from the canvas, as though seeking his warmth in the fabric. Then I return inside and arrange the day's letters on my desk: Shash's latest dispatch, the survivors' confessions, the blank sheets I'll send tomorrow.
My pen hovers over fresh stationery, but words fail me. So instead I light a single lantern by the window, its glow soft against the snow, and allow my heart to speak:
My Lion,
Today I saw your silhouette on the ridge and believed in miracles again. Each beat of my heart is a promise that I wait—always—beneath falling snow and frozen skies. Return to me with stories of survival, and I will welcome you with every breath.
Ever yours,
Kavya
I fold the note, tucking it into an envelope, then hand it to the runner who stands guard at the flap. She bows and vanishes into the night, leaving me alone with the lantern's flicker.
Exhaustion pulls at my limbs, but sleep evades me. Instead, I wander the darkened camp, past shuttered tents and stacked supply crates, until I reach the cherry grove's sentinel trees. Their skeletal branches glisten under moonlight, and I imagine each one coated in blossoms once more. I settle onto the stump and close my eyes, letting the hush wash over me.
A soft sound—footsteps on snow—draws me from reverie. I open my eyes to see Daiwik approaching, breath visible in the lantern glow. He carries two mugs, steam rising like twin prayers.
"I thought you might need this," he says, offering me one.
I accept it gratefully. The chai's warmth spreads through me, a comfort in the frozen night.
He sits beside me, silence settling between us like a shared blanket. Finally he speaks: "It's hard, isn't it? Waiting."
I nod, staring at the distant horizon. "Every moment feels like an eternity."
He listens, then offers a confession of his own. "I'm afraid to hope too much," he admits. "Because if he doesn't return... I don't know how we'll carry on."
My heart aches for him—carrying my absence alongside his own. I place a hand on his arm. "We'll carry on together. He will return."
He offers me a sad smile. "Your faith is stronger than mine."
I press his hand. "Then let me lend you mine."
We sit in silence, two souls awaiting dawn's measure. The lantern flickers, snow drifts, and hope hangs between us like a fragile star.
When the first stirrings of sleep finally arrive, I return to my tent. Inside, I find a single envelope slipped beneath my door: no return address, just Shash's insignia embossed in blue wax.
I slide it open by lantern light:
Kavya,
Tonight we hold the line beneath a sky that burns with tracer fire. Each flash reminds me of your heartbeat. I fight for every inch of this ridge as I fight for our future. If I survive, I will carry you with me beyond any battlefield.
—Shash
Tears pool in my eyes. I press the letter to my cheek, feeling the heat of his promise. Then I tuck it into my journal and finally allow sleep to claim me.
Dawn, December 28th
I wake to an urgent clang: the red alarm bell. The clinic's doors fling open as medics rush in. A fresh convoy of wounded pours through: groans, panicked cries, the scent of smoke and blood. My shawl drops from my shoulders as I leap into action, rallying the teams, directing stretchers, stitching shredded uniforms. Each patient is urgent, a soul snatched from the edge. My thoughts flicker to Shash—did he face this same deluge last night?
Hours pass in a torrent of pain and purpose. By midday, the bloodshed stabilizes, and I step outside for air. The sky is heavy with charcoal clouds. Snow falls in thick flakes, each one a whisper of mourning. I close my eyes, draw in a tremulous breath, and open them to see a figure approaching through the storm.
Shash stands there—coat dusted in snow, rifle strapped across his back, eyes luminous with exhaustion and relief.
My breath catches as I launch across the frozen ground, arms outstretched. He meets me halfway, dropping his pack. I climb into his embrace, burying my face in his coat, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my ear.
"I made it back," he murmurs, voice raw. "I promised."
I pull back, hands on his chest. Snowflakes melt where they touch us. "You're here."
He studies my face, tears glinting. "I fought for every inch, but I fought hardest for this moment."
I press my hand to his cheek. "I prayed for it."
He wraps me in a final, fierce embrace, as though sealing every vow with that single held breath. Around us, the wind howls, snow swirls, but in our arms there is only warmth.
Inside the clinic tent, he sheds his coat and stands before the team. Colonel Rajput strides in, eyes blazing. He halts at Shash's shoulder, offering a stiff salute. Shash returns it, then gestures to me.
"This is Dr. Malhotra," he announces. "She kept my spirit alive."
The colonel fixes me with a rare, almost tender gaze. "We owe you both our lives." His salute ends with a nod of approval before he turns and departs.
Shash takes my hands. "I'm home," he whispers.
I lean into him, pressing my lips to his. "Home."
Around us, the clinic hums with life saved. Outside, the ridge looms—a reminder of battles yet to come. But today, the war feels distant, and in our shared heartbeat I find a fragile peace.
As we stand beneath falling snow, I realize that waiting was not merely an ordeal—it was our vow made manifest. Through every storm, every letter, every heartbeat, we built a fortress of hope. And now, together, we will walk forward—scarred, tested, but unbroken—into whatever dawn awaits.