I awake to the steady thrum of the mess bell—an insistent reminder that life here never pauses. Outside our tent flap, dawn's pale light seeps through frost‑veined canvas. My shawl lies folded over my cot, its fabric still carrying the faint scent of his coat. I press a hand to my chest, feeling the hollow where he should be.
The clinic is already stirring when I arrive: medics trading hushed updates, generators humming beneath the snow's weight, fresh‑faced officers blinking in the morning glare. I move among them, collecting intake forms, pouring tea, offering the first measure of comfort to those who have none left. Each patient is its own war—a corporal haunted by nightmares, a driver shaking with survivor's guilt, a volunteer's trembling hands. I guide them through breathing drills, soothing words, scraps of poetry I've learned from Shashwat's letters.
By mid‑morning, the camp runner arrives with urgent orders: Shashwat's unit must redeploy to a newly contested ridge at first light tomorrow. My heart stutters. The ridge is a kill zone—narrow, exposed, a death trap in winter. I clutch the letter he sent last night:
My Love,
Tomorrow we move to Dead Man's Pass. Keep your thoughts in the fire that burns between us. Trust that I will return.
—Shash
I fold the letter, pressing it to my lips. Outside, the wind flares, carrying the distant crack of artillery. I tuck the letter into my journal and force myself to breathe. There are lives here that depend on my steadiness.
Colonel Rajput appears at the flap—his presence heavier than any snowfall. He greets me with a nod. "I hear the redeployment news." His voice is gravel and regret. "They'll need more support."
I grip my satchel. "I'll be here."
He studies me, eyes flicking to the ridge in the distance. "Be safe."
I nod. "I will."
He leaves as silently as he arrived, his plea trailing like frost in the air.
Afternoon brings a session on "Navigating Uncertainty," where soldiers write their fears on slips of paper and cast them into a simulated ash pit—a box lined with foil. Each fear—of death, of failure, of loss—is surrendered in flame. I watch as a sergeant tears his confession: "I'm afraid I'll never go home." He casts it in. I guide him through letting go. As the papers burn, the tent warms with reluctant hope.
When the session ends, dusk is spreading its gray mantle. I gather the ash‑black remains, sealing them in a tin and labeling it "Courage, 26th December." I place it beside Shash's locket—two reliquaries of grief and resolve.
The mess bell tolls again. I enter to find a lone figure waiting: Daiwik, hands in his pockets, uniform dusted with snow. He offers a tentative smile.
"How are you holding up?" he asks.
I force a breath. "As well as anyone who loves a soldier can."
He nods. "I got your letter."
My pulse spikes. "You did?"
He produces the envelope: my words to Shash, smeared at the corners where I erased tears. "He asked me to read it to him."
Tears sting. "Tell him... tell him I love him more than the ice fears flame."
He presses the envelope into my hand. "He'll know."
He pauses, then adds softly, "Be with me tonight, Kavya. Let me cover for you."
I study him: friend, confidant, the man whose own heart carries its own fractures. But tonight, I need no defense. "Yes," I whisper.
That evening, I join him at the field hospital, trading clinics for operating tables. We move through rows of stretchers, patching wounds, comforting tears, our hands steady in the dark. I guide a young soldier through a panic attack; he steadies an errant IV line. Between us, no words are needed—only shared purpose and quiet solidarity.
When the last patient is settled, he leads me to a small alcove where the tent heaters glow faintly. He hands me a steaming cup of chai. "For us," he murmurs.
I sip, warmth flooding me. "Thank you."
He meets my gaze. "We may lose him tomorrow."
The words are a knife in my chest. I set down the cup, pressing both hands to my heart. "Then let me lose him holding your hand."
He pulls me into an embrace, strong enough to ground me against the storm. "We wait together," he whispers.
We linger until the generators grow quiet, then part with a promise: No matter the dawn, we face it side by side.
Night deepens. I return to my tent and write one final letter:
My Lion,
At sunrise, you cross into the darkest stretch. I will light a beacon at our grove—lanterns in the snow—so you know the way home. Fight for me, and I will fight for you, across any distance.
Forever yours,
Kavya
I seal it and tuck it beneath my pillow. Sleep eludes me, replaced by the rhythm of my vows: I love him, I wait, I write, I hope.
At last, exhaustion takes me, and I dream of frost‑white landscapes and footsteps heavy with returning.
Dawn arrives in shards of pale light. I wake with a start, snowflakes brushing the tent flap. I dress in layers and step outside into a world poised between sleep and battle. The ridge looms, dark and unforgiving. Supply trucks line the path, engines idling. Soldiers board, rifles slung, packs secured.
My heart pounds as I spot Shashwat among them—helmet in hand, locket at his throat. He removes his gloves and finds me, stepping off the truck with deliberate care. We meet beneath the frozen sky.
His eyes are solemn. "I carry you," he says.
I swallow the lump in my throat. "And I carry you."
He extends the letter I wrote. I press my palm to his cheek. "Remember my words."
He nods. We share one last kiss—defiant, desperate, a promise sealed by frost.
Then he turns and boards the truck. I salute him as he climbs in. He returns it, gaze never leaving mine. The engine revs, tires crunch the gravel, and he is gone.
I stand until the convoy disappears. Then I gather my shawl and return to the clinic, each step echoing in my soul.
Inside, chaos hums: wounded arriving from night raids, medics barking orders, the scent of antiseptic and fear. I slip into my role—healing hands, calm voice—yet each patient's cry stabs me with longing. Halfway through the day, the camp runner hands me a familiar envelope: Shash's final pre‑dawn letter:
My Dearest,
I crossed the pass at sunrise, each step a prayer. The ridge is ours, but the cost was dear. Some men were lost—brave souls who dreamed of home as fiercely as I dream of you. Know that I survived for us. I will come back.
—Shash
I fold the letter, tears blurring the words. I press it to my heart and whisper into the din: "I believe you."
Afternoon fades into evening. The bombing starts again—distant concussion, crackling air. I retreat to the cherry grove, candle in hand. Lanterns line the branches, casting dancing shadows. I light each one, murmuring his name with each flame.
When the sky is dark, I stand beneath the trees, heart a fragile ember against the night. I speak into the wind:
"Find your way back to me."
The grove trembles in response, as though promising he will.
That night, I sleep with letters pressed to my chest—his words, my vows, entwined like roots in frozen soil.
And I wait.