Dawn in camp came too quickly, the pale light a reminder that rest is always borrowed. I woke to the distant drone of aircraft—supply runs overhead—yet felt the weight of last night's wounds pressing into memory. Shashwat lay beside me still bandaged, breathing evenly as the shadows retreated from his face. I pressed a hand to his chest, savored the warmth that meant he lived another dawn.
I rose quietly, wrapping my shawl around my shoulders, and stepped into the cold. Lanterns cast elongated ghosts across the snow. I moved to stoke the candle we'd left in the grove—its flame flickering fiercely against the wind. Beneath skeletal branches, I closed my eyes and whispered gratitude to any god who would listen: for his life, for this moment, for the fragile peace we had found.
Back at the clinic tent, the day's work awaited. New intake forms lay stacked on the table, each a story of survival and sorrow. I organized the triage area with methodical calm, my fingers brushing over fresh notebooks for mental‑health check‑ins. The medics filtered in, offering nods that spoke of solidarity born of shared trauma.
By mid‑morning, I led a session on "Embracing Vulnerability", urging soldiers to share moments when they felt most alive amid chaos. One by one, they stepped forward: a radio operator who found solace in a child's drawing, a sniper who wrote poetry to keep nightmares at bay, a commander who cried when no one watched. When it was Shashwat's turn, he surprised us all by describing the moment he realized he fought not just for country, but for the promise of a life beyond war—a life with me waiting in the grove.
Silent awe filled the tent, an echo of our shared breath. I saw tears in hardened eyes, and felt a swell of pride that his return had breathed life into their broken hopes.
After the session, I sought Shash out at the supply crates. He stood alone, helmet off, staring at the distant ridge. I crossed the narrow space between us, slipping my hand into his.
"How are you?" I asked softly.
He exhaled slowly. "I'm whole enough."
I pressed my palm to his side where the bandage still covered last night's wound. "I'm here," I said.
His gaze met mine, gratitude and regret mingling. "I don't deserve you."
I shook my head. "We deserve each other."
He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch. "Thank you for staying."
I smiled through tears. "Always."
Late afternoon brought an unexpected visitor: Colonel Rajput, flanked by two senior officers, visibly solemn. He greeted me with a respectful bow. "Doctor, your presence at the ridge saved many lives," he said, voice thick. "Your model of care is now being adopted for all medical detachments during high‑altitude operations."
I blinked at the weight of his words. "I'm honored."
He slid a folded document across the table: a proposal to formalize trauma workshops and letter‑writing protocols across the front. "This will bear your name," he said.
I swallowed, mind swirling. "I hope it helps."
He's studied me then. "It will." He rose, saluted Shashwat, and departed—leaving us with the knowledge that our love had rippled outward, bringing healing to many.
That evening, Shash and I returned to the grove at first light. The wind had died, leaving snow undisturbed like fresh linen. I brought two cups of tea; he held one. We sat in silence, watching dawn paint the sky in pale gold.
He handed me a small metal box. "I kept this safe," he said. Inside lay the first letter I ever wrote him—the one he carried in his dog tags before we found each other. Tears sprang forward as I lifted it.
"I thought I lost it," I whispered.
He shook his head. "No. It belongs with you."
I closed the box and pressed it to my heart. "Thank you."
He leaned in, capturing my lips in a kiss deeper than any before—a seal on the fragile promise we had built across endless distance.
Night fell with hushed reverence. Lanterns glowed in the grove, and we remained beneath skeletal branches until sleep claimed us. In dreams, we walked through summer fields rather than trenches; in dreams, our laughter echoed louder than any gunshot.
But dawn always comes—and with it, the world demands we bear our scars and stand ready to heal others. And so we would, together.
When I awake, the grove is hushed beneath fresh snowfall. Shashwat sleeps beside me, breathing deeply. I press a hand to his chest, each rise and fall a pulse of promise. Last night's kiss feels etched into my bones—fire against winter's chill. I rise and clear snow from the stump, placing a new lantern in the hollow. Its glow spreads warmth across the white blanket.
Back in the clinic tent, we reunite with our teams for another day of care. I guide soldiers through "Restoring Trust" exercises—paired circle holds that rebuild bonds broken by war. Shashwat demonstrates alongside me, his presence steady, each embrace a lesson in vulnerability. The men look to us not just as officers but as proof that healing can flourish even in the frost.
At midday, word arrives: a temporary ceasefire to celebrate a national festival just beyond the pass. The camp explodes in cautious joy. Shashwat and I steal moments between duties—shared chapattis in the mess, whispered laughter beside lanterns, soft touches in deserted corridors. Each smile defies the ice, each glance rekindles hope.
As dusk approaches, the festival's drums echo distant and faint. We walk the perimeter together, boots crunching snow. He stops at the edge of the ridge and pulls me close. "Tonight, no letters," he says. "Just us."
I nod, heart soaring. He reveals a small tin of fireworks—carefully smuggled from the supply depot. Under a sky painted in silver and indigo, we light sparklers and rockets, the colors blooming like flowers against dark. Soldiers pause their drills to watch, smiles breaking through war-weariness. In that brief display, we stand as beacons—love's defiance in the face of conflict.
When the last spark fades, we return to the grove, lanterns swinging overhead like fallen stars. He wraps me in his coat, carrying me to the stump. I rest in his arms as petals of snow drift down, and for a moment the world feels whole.
Under skeletal branches, we vow again: that no distance, no battle, no night will sever the ties we've forged. In the festival's glow and the grove's hush, we'll carry each other through every storm—our love enduring as long as dawn follows nightfall.