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.