I woke to the low murmur of wind through the canvas, carrying a chill that crept beneath my robe and settled in my bones. The tent felt impossibly large without him; the cot beside mine remained untouched, a silent testament to absence. Dawn's pale light filtered through frosted windows, illuminating the scattered letters on my desk—Shash's last dispatch unfinished, open to the wind that carried it northward. I rose with a tightness in my chest, gathering my shawl and boots, steeling myself for another day of patient confessions.

By 0600 hours, the clinic tent was alive with activity: stretchers being arranged, medics counting supplies, officers shuffling through intake forms. I moved through the bustle like a ghost, offering nods and practiced smiles. Each "Good morning, Doctor" felt hollow until I found the courage to anchor myself in purpose: to heal, to listen, to wait.