The dawn air carried an almost-holy stillness, as if the world itself paused to grant me this morning's breath. After weeks of unbroken waiting, I awoke with Shashwat at my side—his steady chest rising and falling beneath my hand—proof that love had indeed weathered every freeze. I closed my eyes, committing the moment to memory: the soft light on his storm-gray hair, the faint scent of pine and gunmetal lingering on his coat, the warmth of his body pressed against mine.
Eventually, I slipped from our cot, careful not to disturb him. The tent bustled already: medics trading hushed greetings, supplies rattling on tables, the faint hum of the heater chasing away the last frost. I dressed in my clinic coat and made my way to the mess tent, carrying a tray of steaming chai and parathas.
"Morning," I murmured to the soldiers gathered there. They offered nods and smiles—extraordinary gifts after days spent with eyes cast downward.
I delivered the tea to Shashwat before he left for the briefing tent. He accepted a cup, eyes warm with gratitude. "Thank you," he said, voice husky. "For everything."
I nodded, heart fluttering. "Come back by noon." It was less a request than an anchor for both our hearts.
He smiled and traced a finger along the rim of his cup. "I'll do my best."
The morning's duties unfolded in familiar rhythm: intake interviews, wound dressings, guided breathing sessions. Yet each task felt infused with new meaning now that he was home. When I led the group on "Renewing Purpose After Reunion," Shashwat joined me at the front. Soldiers watched in rapt silence as he spoke of the relief that had washed over him when he found me waiting in the grove. His raw honesty sparked tears—and nods of recognition—from veterans who had forgotten what hope felt like.
At midday, the colonel summoned us both to the command tent. We found him poring over maps and troop reports, tension etched into his furrowed brow. He looked up as we entered, relief softening his hard features. "Good to have you back, Major," he said, inclining his head to Shashwat. Then he turned to me. "Dr. Malhotra, your presence here matters more than you know."
I inhaled sharply—praise from the stoic warrior felt like sunlight after endless rain. He slid a new set of orders across the table: a temporary ceasefire to allow medevac operations, extended supply runs, and—most critically—time off for soldiers who chose to see their families.
The colonel's voice was firm. "Use this time wisely. Rebuild what's been broken."
Shashwat and I exchanged a glance—hope shining in both our eyes. We stood a little taller, hearts buoyed by the promise of peace.
After the meeting, we strolled back to the grove, hands entwined. The seedlings of wildflowers I'd planted in early spring—our quiet rebellion against the cold—now peeked through patches of thawing snow. Shashwat knelt beside one, brushing his fingertip along a delicate green shoot. "You did this?" he asked, awe in his voice.
I smiled. "A reminder that life always finds a way." I pressed my palm to the earth. "Just like us."
He rose and pulled me into a hug, pressing my face to his chest. "I've missed this warmth," he whispered.
We shared a breakfast of leftover parathas and tea beneath the skeletal branches, savoring a rare hour of calm. Laughter came easily, as did gentle teasing—chocolate crumbs on uniforms, mismatched socks, the way his eyes sparkled when sunlight caught his lashes. For a moment, the war felt like a distant memory.
The afternoon held a special session: "Healing Across Distance", designed for soldiers with family waiting beyond the front. We set up video feeds—crude by civilian standards but priceless here. Fathers saw newborns for the first time; sisters waved to brothers who had not returned for years; mothers shed tears that crackled with joy. When it came time for Shashwat's feed, he connected with me, and the entire tent murmured in collective awe as I waved from under the cherry-blossom lanterns. His smile across the screen lit up the space.
After the session, he lingered by the equipment, eyes alight with possibilities. "We should do this every week," he said. "No soldier should feel so far away."
I agreed, heart full. "We will."
Then a new set of orders arrived by courier: an urgent brigade movement to the Western Ridge in forty-eight hours. My chest constricted—and I saw his face fall.
He slipped away to the colonel's tent; I returned to the clinic. The final hours passed in a blur of preparations—sewing uniform patches, labeling ration packs, teaching one last breathing drill to ease stress. When the sun dipped low, I found Shash watching the ridge in the distance, snow swirling around him.
He turned as I approached, eyes tired. "I'm sorry," he said.
I placed a hand on his arm. "Don't apologize for duty."
He pulled me close. "I promised you time." His voice broke. "And now they call me away again."
I laid my forehead against his. "Promise me you'll come back."
He closed his eyes, breathing in my scent. "I promise."
We stood in silence, the last light fading behind the ridge, knowing that tomorrow would test that promise once more.
When the final bugle sounded, we met at the grove's edge. He handed me a folded piece of paper—my letter from morning, now worn at the edges. I told him then that I loved him, that every bit of my heart belonged to him. He smiled, a flash of relief and wonder, before stepping onto the waiting truck.
I saluted him—perfect form, jagged emotion. He returned it, then climbed aboard, helmet in hand. The engine roared, carrying him away into the gathering dusk.
I watched until the truck vanished behind a rise, my heart anchored beneath the lantern-lit branches. Then, gathering my shawl and journal, I walked back to the clinic, each footstep a prayer that love's flame would guide him safely home.
The clinic's lights hum like distant stars as I slip back inside, heart still pounding from the farewell. I arrange the morning's letters on my desk—the latest from Shashwat, soldiers' confessions, and family messages gathered during yesterday's video feeds—and set to work triaging the new arrivals. But my hands shake despite the steady drum of purpose beneath my ribs.
By mid‑morning, the first wounded from the Western Ridge operation arrive: a corporal with frostbite through two toes, a gunner with shrapnel lodging near his spine, and a medic whose eyes still tremble at memories of fallen comrades. I guide them through cleaning wounds and grounding exercises; each breath, each stitch, is a silent plea for Shashwat's safety.
Late morning, Colonel Rajput appears at the flap again—gray dawn washing his medals in soft light. He lays a new set of orders on my desk: extended leave for frontline medics to rotate home, a temporary cease‑fire window in two days to realign supply lines, and—for me—a formal commendation for "extraordinary contributions to morale and care." I blink back tears as he presses the certificate into my hands.
"You've earned this," he says, voice thick. "And so has he, knowing you wait here."
I bow my head. "Thank you, sir."
He pauses, then adds softly, "Take the leave window yourself—go home for a bit. Rest before the next storm."
My heart stutters—but duty tugs at my sleeve. I force a nod. "I will."
As he leaves, I cradle the certificate like a precious relic, then tuck it into my satchel beside the letters. Its weight is both honor and reminder: even in calm, the war waits.
That afternoon, I lead an elective session on "Moments of Peace", inviting soldiers to share the small, non‑battle memories that bring them solace: a grandmother's smile, first snowfall at home, the taste of mangoes in monsoon. Laughter bubbles through the tent—rare, bright—like embers in ash. For a moment, the world feels whole again.
When the session ends, Shashwat finds me at the tent flap—early from his reconnaissance. He holds two mugs of steaming tea and offers me one without a word. I accept, warmth seeping into my chilled fingers.
He studies my face. "They told me—commendation?"
I show him the certificate. He smiles—a slow sunrise in his stormy eyes. "Well deserved."
I sip my tea. "I'm going home for a bit," I admit. "They gave me leave."
He sets his mug down. "Take my leave window, too," he says. "If it's safe."
My heart soars. "Will you come with me?"
He hesitates, concern flickering. "Orders come first."
I press a hand to his arm. "Then at least promise me you'll write every day."
He nods. "I promise."
We share a quiet smile, savoring the fragile gift of calm.
As dusk falls, I pack a small bag: notebooks, letters, a change of clothes, the commendation certificate. When the runners arrive with my travel orders, I step aside to embrace Shashwat in private. He holds me tight, as though I might slip away into the night.
"I'll miss you," he murmurs.
"I'll miss you more," I reply.
He presses a final kiss to my forehead. "Come back safe."
"I will," I vow.
At the tent flap, I don a civilian overcoat and step into the hush of evening. Lanterns guide my path to the convoy trucks. Shashwat salutes from the clinic door; I return it, a soldier's farewell infused with a lover's plea.
I climb aboard and find a seat by the window. The truck rumbles to life, carrying me away from the clinic's warmth and toward home's uncertain comfort.
Through the shaking lenses, I watch the snowy landscape retreat, each mile a measure of longing. I clutch the letters in my lap, pressing them to my chest. Each word from him is a beacon; each memory I carry is a shield against fear.
As the convoy winds down the ridge, I close my eyes, breathing in the promise of calm—and bracing for the storm to come.