When the convoy rumbled out of camp before dawn, I felt the ground shift beneath me—an earthquake of absence. Wrapped in my overcoat, I sat by the window, watching the clinic's lanterns fade into the snowy haze. Each breath formed clouds of longing. I clutched Shashwat's last letter in one hand and the commendation certificate in the other, trying to anchor myself to both worlds.
As the trucks wound down the icy road toward the highway, I recalled our final moments beneath the cherry grove lanterns: his promise to return, my vow to wait. Now, distance stretched between us like an endless valley, and I was the messenger of hope, carrying letters and memories back to the world we once shared.
The convoy paused at a supply depot, and I descended, gathering my satchel and stepping onto crunching gravel. A group of veterans gathered nearby, nodding in recognition.
"Dr. Malhotra," one called, frost on his whiskers. "Safe travels."
I offered a weary smile. "Thank you."
Inside the makeshift waiting area—a quonset hut warmed by a single heater—I found a row of cots for traveling personnel. I settled on one, placing my bag beside me, and unfolded Shash's letter:
My Soul,
Every mile I traverse carries me back to you. The ridge held, but my mind never strayed from the grove's whisper. Soon, the frost will thaw, and so will our waiting.
—Shash
I pressed the note to my lips and tucked it into my pocket. Around me, families and soldiers clustered in tight groups, sharing cups of coal‑black tea and stories of home. A young woman cradling a toddler caught my eye; she whispered to her child, "Mama will be home soon." The toddler's grin was a star in the dimness, a reminder that hope can bloom in any cold.
When the transport to the highway arrived, I boarded a coach bound for the railway station. The interior was packed: soldiers in transit, aid workers, one elderly man clutching a battered violin case. I chose a seat beside the aisle and braced for the journey ahead.
The train crawled through mountain passes, snow drifting against the windows like silent petals. I wrote in my journal, capturing the shifting landscape and my swirling thoughts:
The world is both larger and smaller without him—larger in the span of these white plains, smaller in the emptiness of his absence beside me.
By late morning, we reached the railway station in the foothills. Steam rose from the engine as I disembarked, the clamor of passengers and porters a jarring contrast to camp's solemn hush. I navigated to the waiting room and found a bench to gather myself.
I pulled out Shash's letters and reread each one, tears streaming silently. One described an encounter with an injured sparrow, another a quiet moment beneath tracer fire. Each was a shard of his soul, and I clutched them as though they might break without my touch.
A soft voice interrupted my reverie. "Dr. Malhotra?" I looked up to see a fellow passenger—a nurse returning to Delhi. She smiled kindly. "I treated soldiers at your clinic. They spoke highly of you."
I managed a nod. "Thank you."
She handed me a cup of chai she'd been carrying. "On the house," she said. "For the journey."
I accepted the cup, warmth flooding through me. "You're very kind."
She departed with a nod, and I sat with that sweetness tinged by sorrow. Somewhere on that ridge, Shashwat fought for every breath; here, a stranger gifted me comfort. The world was a tapestry of small mercies and vast distances.
The afternoon train to Delhi departed on schedule. I boarded, finding a window seat this time, and settled in for the long ride. Outside, snow‑capped peaks melted into rolling hills, which then gave way to fertile plains. I watched villages pass by—fields of mustard, families tending goats—life continuing in rhythm even as war raged behind me.
I pulled out my tablet to catch up on clinic reports, forging ahead even as part of me longed to stay wrapped in camp's cold embrace. The train's gentle sway lulled me into a brief nap; I dreamed of Shashwat's arms and woke to the click of announcements for an upcoming station.
When I reached Delhi late that evening, the city greeted me with a rush of heat and noise. Rickshaws honked, street vendors shouted, and the air smelled of spices and possibility. I grabbed my bag and stepped onto the platform, heart pounding at the contrast so stark between front and home.
Outside the station, a driver awaited with a sign: "Dr. Malhotra." I climbed into the air‑cooled car and sank back against the seat. The city's lights glittered like a thousand promises as we wove through traffic toward my apartment.
At home, I kicked off my boots by the door and washed the journey's grime from my skin. The apartment was quiet and familiar: stacked bookshelves, framed photographs of my parents, the balcony overlooking the city's sea of lights. I retrieved my journal and letters from my satchel, laying them across the dining table for the night's vigil.
Exhaustion finally claimed me in the early hours, and I fell into bed clutching Shash's letter, fingers ghosting over the inked words.
I awoke to late‑morning sunshine streaming through the curtains—an unaccustomed gift. My phone buzzed with messages: reminders from the clinic, notes from colleagues, and one brief text from Daiwik: "Hope you made it okay." I typed back: "I'm home. Missing you already."
Over strong coffee and toast, I opened my email to find a formal invitation: "Recognition Ceremony, Army Medical Corps Headquarters, 1700 hours." I touched the printed commendation certificate sitting on my table. I would accept it tonight, in uniform—though not the camouflage of war, but the crisp white of a civilian psychologist honored by soldiers.
I prepared for the day: tailored trousers, a neat blouse, my work coat folded over my arm. I pinned a small brooch in the shape of a cherry blossom to my lapel—an emblem of waiting and return.
The ceremony hall gleamed with medals and banners. I was escorted to the front row beside Colonel Rajput, who offered a rare, approving smile. General Verma took the podium, his voice echoing with gravitas:
"Today, we honor those whose compassion and courage extend beyond battlefields. Dr. Kavya Malhotra has tended to our wounded, healed our hearts, and stood unwavering in the face of distance and danger. We commend her extraordinary service."
Applause rose like a wave. I stood, heart pounding, and accepted the medal—a silver disc engraved with laurel and caduceus. I pinned it to my coat and sat, breath shaking from honor and the ache of his absence.
Afterward, as the crowd dispersed, I found Shashwat waiting in civilian attire—his uniform swapped for a dark overcoat, hair wind‑tousled. Relief washed through me.
He crossed the polished floor and enveloped me in a fierce hug. "I came as fast as I could," he said, voice low. "I couldn't miss this."
Tears pricked as I held him. "Thank you for coming."
He kissed my temple. "You deserve every commendation—and more."
We stood among saluting officers and congratulatory handshakes, but for a moment we existed only for each other.
That evening, we returned to the apartment, shedding ceremony finery for comfort. I brewed sweet masala chai and served biscuits. We sat on the balcony, city lights twinkling below.
He wrapped an arm around me. "Tell me about home," he said.
I smiled, recounting a neighbor's wedding, the blooming jacarandas, the chatter of monsoon rains in grapevines. He listened, eyes bright with wonder at a world he'd left behind.
Then he shared his own tales: the ridge's unforgiving winds, the patrols under starless skies, the soldier who recited my exercises to calm his terror. With each word, I felt the distance melt, replaced by the warmth of shared stories.
Night deepened, and we lit a small lamp on the balcony. I rested my head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of urban jasmine and his familiar pine-and-metal.
In that quiet moment, I realized the war's echo would never truly fade—but neither would our promise. We had built a bridge across ice and flame, one letter, one vow at a time. And as long as we had each other, that bridge would stand.
Sleep crept in gently, a reward for our journey through absence. When dawn arrived again, we would face both the calm and the storm—together.