When dawn broke over Leh, it felt less like a gift and more like a summons—pale light cutting through the frost, urging me back into the world I both loved and feared. I rose before first light, slipping into my clinic coat and stepping into the chill where lanterns still glowed like distant candles against the powder. My shawl wrapped tight, I crossed the snow‑packed yard to the mess tent, gathering tea for the medics and soldiers who would pour in any moment.
Today was different: Shashwat was home, yet the war waited impatiently. His return was a miracle I barely dared to breathe, but the orders that summoned him back to duty tomorrow cast a long shadow across the morning's warmth. I pressed the locket at my throat as I poured steaming chai, my heart caught between hope's bright flame and duty's unrelenting march.
Inside, the camp buzzed with renewed energy. Soldiers who'd fretted beneath winter's burden now moved with a spark in their eyes, seeing their major returned. I conducted intake interviews with a steady voice, though each "Doctor, he's back" whispered in the hall made my chest tighten. I guided breathing exercises, demonstrating the same rhythms I'd practiced alone at night, imagining him beside me.
By mid‑morning, Colonel Rajput arrived—his presence equal parts relief and stern reminder. He found Shash overseeing the distribution of supplies, a natural leader already slipping into command despite the day's frayed edges. The colonel nodded to me in passing: You did this. I bowed, pride and worry tangled in my throat.
Afternoon brought a workshop on "Reintegrating After Loss", designed to help soldiers process their grief when comrades fell in battle. Shashwat joined me at the front, sharing his own story of watching his younger brother, Rishi, die in his arms—an admission he'd never voiced before. His words trembled through the tent, raw and unguarded, teaching more than any clinical slide. The men listened, eyes wet, and I watched as barriers dissolved among them: uniforms, ranks, secrets—all laid bare in shared sorrow.
When the session ended, Shash and I retreated to the grove of cherry trees—our sanctuary beneath skeletal branches. He removed his helmet, his storm‑gray eyes reflecting the pale sky. "I never wanted to leave," he murmured. "But orders don't care for longing."
I reached for his hand, pressing my fingers into his calloused palm. "Stay tonight," I whispered. "Just one more night."
A flicker of conflict crossed his face, but he nodded. "One more night."
We returned to the clinic together, moving through rows of cots as a united front. I guided a young corporal through grounding techniques; Shash reinforced the practice with gentle encouragement—a soldier teaching soldiers to heal. Watching him there, healing others with the same hands that once cradled me, I felt a surge of love that cut through every fear.
Late afternoon shadows lengthened, and the wind shifted. A runner arrived with new intelligence: their forward post was to be reinforced within 24 hours. The ridge they held would expand, pushing farther into enemy lines. My stomach clenched. I caught Shash's eye across the tent—his jaw set, determination blazing.
That evening, after the last patient left, I found him alone by the lantern‑lit supply crates. He held the orders in his hand—crisp, bureaucratic, unyielding. He met my gaze. "They need me," he stated.
I swallowed. "I need you too."
He stepped closer, lifting my chin. "Together doesn't exist there."
I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead to his. "Then let me wait for you anyway."
He kissed me—deliberate, fierce, a promise no signature could ever match. When we broke apart, he folded the orders and tucked them into his pocket. "I'll come back," he vowed again.
I nodded, tears tracing the curve of his cheek. "I know."
We spent the night in the grove, hands entwined, sharing stories of home and dreams that felt impossibly fragile. Each laugh, each whispered confession, was a lifeline thrown across the vast gulf of uncertainty. When sleep finally claimed us, it was in each other's arms, hearts beating out a rhythm of hope.
But war waits for no heart's rhythm. Before first light, the bugle trumpeted—an unyielding call to arms. I leapt from sleep, heart pounding, to find Shash already donning his uniform. He hugged me fiercely. "Be safe," I sobbed.
He pulled back, squared his shoulders. "You too."
And with that, he was gone—
When the bugle's call fades, all that remains is the hush of winter's breath. I stand at the mess tent flap, watching Shashwat's form recede into the gray morning—a silhouette etched against the snow, carrying orders heavier than any pack. My heart clenches, then breaks open with the whisper of my final plea: "Return." The wind carries my words into the void.
Inside the clinic, I take up my role once more: healer, listener, keeper of hope. But each heartbeat is a drumbeat of waiting—an echo of his promise that I cling to like a lifeline. Patients arrive: frostbitten fingers, shrapnel wounds, haunted eyes. I guide them through healing rituals—the same I practiced with his letters as my compass. Each life I touch is a prayer scribed in action: May he be safe.May I see him again.May love survive the winter.
Midday brings a convoy of fresh transports, the engines rumbling like distant thunder. I pause my work to watch the arrivals: soldiers stepping off trucks, eyes scanning for their major, hearts seeking his presence. I feel their desperation; I share it. One young gunner, no older than twenty, approaches with uncertainty. "Doctor," he says, voice quavering, "will he come back?" My throat tightens. I place a steadying hand on his arm. "He will," I reply, though my words are a fragile promise. His shoulders ease, just a fraction, before he follows the line of patients into the tent.
That evening, I retire to the grove alone, carrying the locket and a single lantern. Petals long gone, only skeletal branches remain—yet I drape the lanterns like blossoms reborn. I light them one by one, each flame a beacon for him to find. As the final lamp ignites, the grove pulses with warm light, a constellation of hope against the deepening blue.
A soft crunch of snow draws my attention. I turn to see Daiwik approaching through the storm's edge, concern etched in his gait. He holds out a flask of hot tea. "You'll freeze," he says. "Take this."
I accept it, warmth flooding me. He stands beside me, silent sentinel. Over the grove's hush, he asks, "Do you ever doubt?"
I lower the flask. "Only when the wind carries no answer." Tears threaten. "But I have to keep believing."
He slides a hand into mine, strong and sure. "I believe too." His voice is a quiet anchor in the storm.
We remain side by side beneath the lanterns, each flame flickering in the wind. The night settles around us in frozen waves, and I draw courage from his presence. Even in absence, I am never truly alone.
Before dawn, I return to the tent and write the final letter of the day:
My Brave Lion,
Tonight, I lit our grove aflame with hope. Follow the lanterns back to me. Each step you take toward home is etched in my heart's snow. Return safely.
Yours, forever,
Kavya
I seal the letter and send it on its way, then lay by my cot in restless dreams.
December 30th, Dawn Patrol
The clinic stirs before sunrise. Word comes: Shashwat's unit held the ridge through the night, repelling repeated assaults. Casualties are high, but the line stands. Relief floods me even as dread claws my insides.
I rush to the intake area as the morning convoy arrives. I scan each face for his—tired, frost‑scarred, resolute. At last, I see him: helmet in hand, rifle slung across his back, eyes locked on mine. My breath catches. He steps forward, and the world tilts.
I cross the distance in two strides, catching him in my arms. He holds me as though the world might crumble if he lets go. I press my lips to his collar, tears falling onto his uniform.
"I came back," he murmurs. His voice is raw, laced with every battle he's fought.
I pull back, hands on his shoulders. "You're here." Relief floods me so fully I laugh, a sound raw and joyful.
He smiles, then guides me to a chair. "Tell me everything," he says, voice hoarse.
I lead him inside, offering tea. He sips, then exhales. "We hold the ridge," he says. "We're safe... for now."
I reach for his hand, tracing scars and frost marks. "You're safe now," I whisper.
He studies my face, gratitude shining in his eyes. "Thank you—for waiting. For lighting those lanterns."
I smile through tears. "Always."
Afternoon—Homecoming
Word spreads through the camp: the major has returned. Soldiers line the walkways, offering salutes that echo like thunder. The colonel greets us both, pride and relief carved into his features. "Welcome home," he says, voice trembling.
Shash nods, then turns to me. "I'm home," he repeats.
I step forward, taking his hand. "Home."
Around us, the camp celebrates with tea and shared laughter—healing begun in the glow of reunion. Yet I know the cold lingers at the edges; war's shadow will return. But for now, we stand together, beneath the sun's pale warmth.
Evening—A Quiet Promise
As dusk falls, I lead Shash to the cherry grove once more. Lanterns glow, snow drifts around our feet. He kneels and reveals the sealed orders still in his pocket—the final redeployment notice.
I hold his gaze. "Not always," I whisper.
He lifts my hand, pressing it to his lips. "No more orders," he vows. "I resign this war."
Tears spring as hope ignites. "Stay."
He rises, pulling me close. "I stay."
We abandon all duty under the skeletal branches, sharing a kiss that carries the weight of every battle, every letter, every moment of waiting.
In the hush of the grove, beneath lantern light and falling snow, we make a new promise: that love will carry us through any winter, forging warmth beneath even the fiercest chill.