I wake before dawn, the world outside our tent a pale wash of lavender and steel. My breath mists in the cold air as I step over Shashwat's empty cot, the blanket still creased from last night's warmth. I wrap my shawl tight and slip outside. Lanterns flicker against the tent flaps; distant engines hum like old lullabies. He promised he'd return after patrol—just a night's work. But every minute without him coils tighter in my chest.
By first light, I'm at my desk, letters from Kupwara spread before me. Each envelope is a heartbeat: "I'm safe," he writes; "I think of you when the wind howls." Yet even hope tastes bitter when your beloved is a thousand miles away. I pour tea, the steam rising like prayers, and attempt to focus on my day's work. The intake forms, the guided breathing, the confessions of guilt and fear—they all blur behind the ache of missing him.
A soft knock interrupts my reverie: Daiwik stands at the flap, coat frost‑crusted, eyes heavy. He doesn't enter, just nods. I pour him tea without a word. He accepts it with a small, sad smile. We sit in silence, two hearts tethered by his absence. Finally he speaks: "Shash called last night." Relief surges, then fizzles into dread. "He said they've moved farther north. The line is shifting."
My throat tightens. "Will he be safe?" I whisper.
He shrugs. "He said it's risky. He asked me to tell you... to trust that he comes back to you."
I swallow. "I do." The words tremble between us.
He studies me. "Waiting is a battlefield too."
I nod, tears pricking. "And I fight it every day."
He places a steady hand on my shoulder. "Let me know if you need—"
"No," I cut in gently. "I need to write."
He offers a brief salute and leaves. I clutch the mug, the warmth seeping into my bones. Writing is all I have.
The morning dissolves into hours of patients. Each face is a story of survival: a corporal who lost his voice to shock, a driver haunted by the memory of a fallen comrade, a widow clutching a photograph of lips he can no longer kiss. I guide them through writing letters—release that grief into ink. Their words echo mine: "Please come home...""I wait beneath cherry blossoms...""I carry your name on every breath." In each letter I see myself, waiting.
At lunchtime, Colonel Rajput appears unannounced. His presence still carries the weight of unspoken loss. He greets me with a rare softness. "Your letters reach him," he says. "They sustain him." My throat tightens. "They sustain me too," I reply.
He nods, glancing at the stack of papers. "One day, this war will end. And you two will have the peace you deserve." He places a hand on my arm. "Keep waiting."
I blink back tears. "I will."
That afternoon, the wind picks up, rattling the tent. I write my own letter to Shashwat:
My Lion,
Today the sky weeps snow. I trace each flake for your footprints, longing to follow. The clinic hums with life and loss; I carry your courage into every moment I heal. Return to me—let spring bloom in our hearts again.
Yours always,
Kavya
I seal it and send it off, watching the runner vanish into white.
By dusk, exhaustion sits heavy in my bones. I retreat to the cherry grove. The skeletal branches reach skyward, lanterns swinging in the wind. I press the locket to my lips and whisper, "Come home."
As darkness falls, I hear the distant rumble of engines. My heart flutters. I dash back to the tent flap—only to see supply trucks passing by, masks of equipment in their beds, no familiar figure among them. My chest tightens anew as I realize waiting sometimes means watching the world flow without you.
Inside, I find Daiwik finishing his shift. He offers a gentle nod. "No news?" His question is soft as snowfall.
I shake my head. "Not yet."
He rests a hand on my back. "Get some rest, Kavya."
I force a smile. "I will."
That night, sleep eludes me. I dream of frost‑white landscapes and footsteps echoing in the snow. I wake with a start, heart pounding. Tomorrow, I will rise again, write again, wait again. For waiting is my vow—and love is why I endure the cold.
And so I lie awake, clutching his letters, each word a flicker of warmth in the endless night, until dawn returns and the waiting begins anew.