I awake to a world reshaped by silence. The tent is still, the heater's hum the only testament to life stirring in the frozen dawn. My shawl lies folded neatly on the chair beside our cot—his cot—untouched. I gather it in my arms and step outside into the pale glow of morning, steadying myself against the wind that whips stray snow into my hair. Somewhere beyond the ridge, Shashwat navigates a landscape as treacherous as the one inside my chest, and I clutch the locket at my throat to feel him near.

The clinic tent is already busy when I enter: medics exchanging reports, stretchers lined like silent witnesses, fresh recruits blinking in the harsh light. I move among them, offering tea and soft words. Each face is a reminder of why I endure this harsh place—why I stand where gunfire and grief collide. When the intake forms are done, I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and picturing his steady gaze, the strength in his shoulders, the promise in his voice: I carry you with me.