I woke to the sound of weeping.
My eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, I thought I was still falling through the void. But instead of darkness, I saw cracked plaster above me, stained with damp patches. The air reeked of mildew, sweat, and something sour.
Small bodies shifted in the shadows. Rows of iron-framed beds lined the walls, each filled with children no older than ten. Thin, pale, hollow-eyed. Their breathing rasped in the silence, broken only by the occasional sob muffled into a pillow.
And then I realized—I was one of them.
My arms were shorter. My skin is smooth. My voice, when I gasped, was high and fragile.
The memory of Elias Ward, the soldier, was already fading into the fog. But a new truth settled in my bones. I wasn't a captain anymore. I wasn't a man at war.
I was a boy.
Alone.
Unwanted.
And the crying I heard was my own.