I awake to the faint clatter of shovels against frozen earth, a sound both jarring and oddly hopeful. Dawn's first light slips through the tent flaps in pale ribbons, illuminating the frost‑covered ground outside. I wrap my shawl tight, then step into the chill to join the morning ritual: clearing pathways, tending the generator, preparing tea for the first wave of arrivals.

Each breath tastes of ice and anticipation. Somewhere beyond the ridge, Shashwat stands vigil in a world of gunmetal and snowdrifts, carrying our love in the locket at his throat. I press my palm to my heart, imagining his steady pulse, drawing strength from the memory of his words: I will return.