The morning air tasted of metal and distant gunfire. I woke to the hum of generators, the low murmur of soldiers stirring for duty. Outside our tent, frost had thawed into slush, but the wind still cut like a blade. I rose on trembling legs, wrapping myself in my shawl before stepping into the chill. Somewhere out there, Shashwat was waking to the same sky, marching toward the unknown, and I carried his last letter like a lifeline against the cold.

I moved through the clinic in near‑silence, assembling my kit: notebooks, pens, a small vial of peppermint oil for panic attacks, and the stack of letters he'd sent. Each envelope bore the jagged edge of frost, a promise burned into paper. I tucked them into my coat pocket, close to my heart, then took my place at the intake table. One by one, fresh faces appeared—officers with haunted eyes, each carrying untold stories from the front. I greeted them, offered tea, guided them through the first steps of trauma care. Yet my mind danced on the words he'd written the night before: