I wake before dawn in the cherry grove, the candle from last night's vigil still flickering in the snow. Shashwat sleeps beside me on the stump's rough wood, head pillowed against my coat. I trace the lines of his face, grateful for each breath he draws. The world beyond our sanctuary still rages, but here, for a few stolen hours, peace has claimed us.
Slowly, as light brightens overhead, I rouse him. He opens one eye, offering a sleepy smile. "Morning," I whisper.
He stretches, pulling me closer. "Morning light and home—best awakenings." He presses a kiss to my temple, then rises to stoke the candle. "Duty calls soon."
I nod, chest tightening. "I know." Together, we stand beneath skeletal branches, lantern glow dissolving into sunrise.
By 0600 hours I'm back in the clinic tent, preparing for the day's influx. A supply runner hands me a parcel of letters from Kupwara—Shash's dispatches lined in frost‑cracked envelopes. Each one sings of wind‑swept trenches and camaraderie; each carries his voice back to me. I tuck them into my journal pocket and move among the stretchers.
At first light, the mess bell clangs, summoning medics and soldiers for tea and briefings. Shashwat appears—uniformed again, bearing his morning ration. He offers me a cup, and for a brief moment, our eyes meet in grateful acknowledgment of this ritual's comfort.
The morning unfolds in dual rhythm: I treat the wounded, he leads defensive patrols. Our paths cross at the midday workshop on "Bearing Witness": I invite soldiers to share brief remembrances of lost comrades. One by one, they step forward under lantern light—speaking names, recounting acts of sacrifice, prayers left unsaid. Tears blur the lines of grief and pride. When it's Shash's turn, he steps to the front and recites a poem he wrote on the ridge:
"They bore the weight of war with silent grace,
Their echoes guide me through this hollow place."
The tent falls silent in reverence before a wave of solemn applause carries us back to reality.
After the session, I find Shash by the supply crates. He stands with hands tucked in pockets, eyes on the ridge beyond the clinic lights. I approach quietly, slipping my hand into his.
He turns, offering a small smile. "Thank you for today," he says. "Your presence is as healing as any medicine."
I lean into him, pressing my cheek to his shoulder. "We heal better together."
He rests his head on mine. "Promise me tonight you'll stay in the grove until I return."
I close my eyes, nodding. "I promise."
He kisses my forehead, then disappears into the evening's work.
By late afternoon, a new order arrives: "Matrix Line rotations extended by seventy‑two hours due to weather delays." My chest lifts at the reprieve—it buys us more time together. I share the news with Shash at dinner beneath the tent's dim lights. Relief softens his features. "Then I'll stay two more nights," he says.
My heart swells. "Two more dawns."
He reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. "Thank you."
Evening brings a lull—storm‑dark clouds gather on the horizon. I prepare for tonight's clinic guard shift: a rotation ensuring someone is always awake to tend emergencies. Shash insists on taking first watch, leaving me to rest. I resist, wanting to stand sentinel for him, but he lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Go sleep," he orders. "I'll wake you if anything comes."
I relent, trusting him. As I curl into the cot, I replay the day's pages in my mind—his poetry, the soldiers' stories, the warmth of his hand—and drift into a dream where cherry blossoms bloom on snow.
I wake to wind rattling the tent and distant crack of artillery. My watch has ended, but something tugs me awake. I slip from the cot and move to the flap, peering into swirling white. The grove beyond is indistinct against the storm's swirl. I shiver, heart fluttering—then a silhouette emerges: Shashwat, helmet off, coat undone, stumbling through the snow.
I fling the flap aside. "Shash!"
He collapses into my arms, trembling, eyes wild. "They attacked the ridge early!" he gasps. "I... I barely made it down."
My heart drops. "We must go back to the clinic."
He nods, leaning on me for support. "I need your care."
Hands locked, we struggle through the snow toward the tent, each step a battle. I half‑carry him, half‑guide him—his uniform torn, a smear of blood across his side. My mind races, adrenaline replacing sleep.
Inside, medics rush to help, guiding him to a cot and peeling back his coat. I kneel beside him, my breath catching at the jagged wound near his ribs. He winces as the orderlies clean the gash.
"Shh," I whisper. "I'm here."
I treat the wound with shaking precision—antiseptic, sutures, compress. He grips my hand through it all, the tremor of pain and relief in his fist.
When it's done, I press a bandage in place. He closes his eyes. "Kavya... thank you."
I brush hair from his forehead. "You saved yourself. You came back."
He exhales, tension melting. "I promised."
I finally let the tears fall, pressing my cheek to his bandaged side. "Stay."
He drifts into a medicated sleep, and I remain by his side—vigil and promise entwined—into the long, storm‑bright night.
I remain by Shashwat's side through the night's howling storm, the clinic's generator humming like a bedridden heartbeat. Lanterns cast trembling pools of light, revealing his bandaged side rising and falling in labored breaths. I sit on a low stool, hand clasped in his, watching for flickers of life in the depths of exhaustion. Each breath he takes is a miracle, a promise honored against the cold's cruel edge.
Around us, the medical team moves in silent choreography: fresh ice packs, whispered updates, trays of warmed saline. I assist when needed, pressing compresses, adjusting blankets, offering murmured comforts. In that cramped space, the world narrows to the space between us—a fragile island of warmth amid the gale.
At last, dawn seeps in gray and tentative. I step outside the tent for air, drawing in lungfuls of the storm's mist. My shawl clings damply, and icicles cling to my eyelashes. I close my eyes and imagine us back in the grove, beneath lantern blossoms, before war seeped into every shadow. I breathe his name into the wind, as though summoning him back to life—and to me.
Returning inside, I find him awake. His eyes open to mine, gratitude shining through pain. "You stayed," he rasps.
"I promised," I reply, voice thick. "Always."
A hint of a smile touches his lips. It's all the strength I need.
We spend the morning in recovery's fragile lull. I coax him into sips of sweet tea and soft bread, guiding his hand as he eats. Each crumb is a victory. His color returns slowly, warming the pale canvas. At midday, the colonel appears at the tent flap—storm‑beaten but resolute. He surveys the scene: Shash's bandages, the circle of medics, my steadfast vigil.
"Major is alive because of you," he says, voice thick with respect. "Get some rest." He bows slightly, then steps away, leaving me flushed with pride and relief.
I settle Shashwar into a reclined cot chair, adjusting pillows beneath his head. He reaches for my hand. "I'll be fine," he murmurs. "But you need rest."
I shake my head. "I'm not leaving you."
He smiles wanly. "You will... eventually."
I nod, blinking back tears. "Okay."
In the early afternoon, a lull allows me to retreat briefly. I wander the grove's outskirts, searching for the buried petals of memory. The storm's drift obscures the branches, and the grove seems ghostly, transformed into a silent sanctuary. I gather fallen lantern shards and brush away snow, clearing space for fresh light. I place a new candle on the stump and light it, its flame winking against the gloom.
I press a gloved hand to the trunk. "I wait," I whisper. "I always wait."
The wind tugs at my scarf as though carrying my vow into every drift.
Back in the clinic tent, Shash repeats my name until I rush to his side. His strength has returned enough that he can sit upright, supporting himself on one elbow. I guide him onto a clean cot. He looks embarrassed; I brush a streak of dirt from his cheek.
"You're a mess," I tease softly.
He chuckles—a sound like the thaw after the cold. "And yet you love me."
I sit beside him, hand on his chest. "Always."
He studies my face, gratitude fierce in his storm‑gray eyes. "I need to tell you something."
My heart hammers. "Anything."
He hesitates. "I'm sorry I brought you into this." His voice cracks. "I never wanted you hurt."
I bow my head, tears brimming. "You didn't," I say. "I chose you."
He closes his eyes, relief and pain mingling. "Thank you."
That evening, as the storm ebbs, the camp opens a small mess under tarps—hot curry, rice, fresh bread. I eat beside Shash, who's able to stand and accept his first full meal in days. Soldiers give us respectful space, recognizing the intimacy of recovery. Each bite he takes is a promise renewed; each sip of chai seals it.
After dinner, we walk back to the grove, stepping carefully through icy ruts. He steadies me when I slip; I wrap my coat tighter around us both. The lanterns we lit earlier blaze against cleared snow, guiding our path like faithful sentinels.
He stops by the stump and turns a small wooden box in his hands—the one where I keep relics: the silver map pendant, Shash's letters, the bullet casing, and now the fragment of these last nights. He opens it, revealing the items one by one, and places a fresh bandage in its place: the piece of gauze from his wound, pressed against his chest.
"This is for you," he says softly. "To remind you that even the deepest wounds can heal."
I close the box gently. "And that love endures beyond any scar."
He nods, capturing my gaze. "Together, always."
We embrace beneath the skeletal branches, the grove's lanterns flickering in the gathering dusk. The storm has passed, leaving the world renewed yet fragile. We stand in the hush, hearts echoing our vow:
No distance, no battle, no shadow can silence the promise we share.