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.