Dawn's first light found the cherry grove nearly buried beneath fresh snow. Lanterns we'd slept under days ago now dripped icicles that tinkled in the pale morning. Shashwat slept beside me on the stump, wrapped in blankets I'd layered the night before. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm—proof that love, tempered by sacrifice, still held strong.
I slipped from the grove and across the camp to the clinic tent, carrying a thermos of chai and a folder of new assignments from headquarters. Last night's victory at the ridge had earned the unit a brief reprieve, but the war never truly paused. My orders detailed mental‑health rotations: extended workshops on resilience, one‑on‑one trauma counseling, and coordinating care with rotating medical detachments.
Inside, medics greeted me with respectful nods. Lieutenant Singh waved me over to review incoming reports: frostbite rates had spiked, concussion injuries doubled, and pneumonia cases emerged among those who'd spent nights in the open. I grimaced at the toll. We'd won a battle, but the war's wounds cut deeper than any gunshot.
By mid‑morning, I led the first workshop of the day: "Rewriting the Story of Survival." Soldiers sat in a semicircle on cots and folding chairs, notebooks held like lifelines. I guided them through reframing exercises—turning "I was powerless" into "I endured"—and invited Shashwat to share his own reframing of fear on the ridge: "I was frozen with dread, yet I found courage in your promise." The room exhaled as hope took root in battered hearts.
During the break, a field chaplain approached me with a letter bearing fresh ink. I recognized Shash's handwriting immediately:
Kavya,
Tomorrow I cross the pass you once walked for me. It's a narrow path, with ice on one side and sheer drop on the other. I carry your faith like a shield against the dizzying heights.
—Shash
I pressed the letter to my lips, tears warming the paper. The path he described ran deep in my mind—literally and metaphorically. I tucked the note into my coat and returned to the workshop, each word a prayer I would send him across that perilous ridge.
Late morning brought a new challenge: a media delegation approved to observe front‑line care. Journalists in insulated jackets and protective goggles entered the tent, cameras slung like weapons. They aimed to capture "the human side of war." I felt a flicker of dread—war's wounds laid bare for headlines—but steeled myself. This was an opportunity to show the world truths few witnessed.
I introduced them to wounded soldiers brave enough to share their stories: a driver who survived an ambush, a rifleman who found solace in letters from home, a medic who buried her fear beneath layers of scrubs. Shashwat welcomed them as well, guiding them past sandbags to the ridge's observation point. Together, we demonstrated breathing exercises, letter writing, and the subtle art of hope.
By midday, the delegation departed with respectful nods and promises to return stories that honored our sacrifices. The camp exhaled a collective sigh—media's gaze had been intense but dignified. I returned to my clinic, feeling both drained and empowered by our capacity to endure.
In the early afternoon, I found Shashwat by the supply crates, poring over maps of the pass. Snow dusted his shoulders, and his eyes were distant, tracing the line we'd walked together. I approached quietly, holding out my thermos.
He accepted the tea, gulping it gratefully. "What's next?" I asked.
He closed the map and pocketed it. "Tomorrow's ascent at first light. We move as a unit—no lone patrols."
I nodded, heart pounding. "I want to join you."
He shook his head gently. "This one I have to do alone."
My shoulders slumped. "Promise me you'll wait for my letters at camp—bring them home to me."
He reached for my hand. "I promise."
We shared a quiet embrace as the storm clouds gathered on the ridge above, the calm before a climb that would test us both in ways we could not yet know.
Evening found us back in the grove, huddled beneath lanterns that fought off the cold. We shared a simple meal of canned stew and warm bread, the steam rising like prayers. Each bite was a statement of hope: that life amid war could still taste of home.
Shashwat retrieved a small fishing‑knife from his pack. "I carry this," he said, turning it over in his hand. "My grandfather's blade—he used it to carve notches for each year of his life."
I reached for his hand. "What notch will you carve for this journey?"
He met my gaze. "One for every mountain I cross to return to you."
I pressed a kiss to his palms. "Then carve hundreds."
We laughed softly—two souls clinging to levity before dawn's alarm. We lit one final candle at the stump, and remained in the hush of falling snow until sleep claimed us both.
At first light, the camp stirred. I stood at the flap with letters in hand, watching the formation of soldiers ready to move. Shashwat emerged from his tent, uniform crisp, breath visible in the cold air. He held my letters close.
"I'll read them each night," he said.
I fought tears. "And I'll write you every dawn."
He kissed me—a vow in action—and stepped into the ranks. I saluted as the convoy departed, each truck's headlight a promise cutting through dawn's gray.
Alone, I gathered my shawl and returned to the clinic, each step a silent prayer that love would guide him across the pass and safely back through the white silence.
The convoy's roar faded into the distance, leaving a fragile hush in its wake. In the clinic tent, I gathered the morning's letters—my pen poised over fresh stationery, ready to chase hope across the void. Yet every word felt too small, too fragile, compared to the vastness of the ridge he now crossed. I closed my eyes, imagining his steps: each one a testament, each breath a vow.
That afternoon, I led a session on "Anchoring in Absence," teaching soldiers to use sensory rituals—touching a keepsake, smelling a chosen scent, reciting a mantra—to feel connected to loved ones. When they shared the objects they carried—a girlfriend's scarf, a child's drawing, a mother's locket—they revealed pieces of home I could scarcely glimpse through frost and distance. I guided them to clutch those talismans as Shashwat might, pressing the silver map pendant at my throat.
Late afternoon brought the colonel once more. He laid a small package on my desk: fresh mountain tea from a supply airdrop. "For you," he said. "To remind you we think of you both." I accepted it with a nod, gratitude and sorrow warring in my chest.
As dusk settled, I prepared for the night's vigil. I donned my heaviest coat and carried a lantern into the grove, where snow piled knee‑high and branches bowed under its weight. I cleared a circle around the stump, placed tea near the candle, and settled onto the lantern's glow. Each beat of my heart was a prayer: Keep him safe. Bring him home.
Hours passed in silent watch. My breath formed clouds in the frozen air; my thoughts traced the ridge's path. At some point, fatigue tugged me toward sleep, and I curled beneath my shawl. In my dreams, Shashwat stood on the pass—only a silhouette against swirling clouds. He reached for me, voice lost in wind, and I awakened with a start, the grove's hush my only answer.
Before dawn's first light, I returned to the clinic. The generator hummed, and stretchers awaited fresh emergencies. I found Daiwik at the triage table, eyes bleary. "You didn't sleep," he said softly.
"I tried," I replied. "But I needed to be at the grove."
He offered a knowing nod. "Me too."
We stood in shared understanding—two hearts tethered by love and fear. Then he patted my shoulder and returned to his duties.
At 0500 hours, word crackled over the radio: Shashwat's unit had reached Dead Man's Pass. Their ascent had been perilous—wind gusts, narrow ledges, frostbite warnings—but they held the line. Relief surged, followed by dread: now came the descent—a different danger steeped in exhaustion.
I hurried through final checks—bandages, spare blankets, refill canisters—preparing for the return of casualties. My hands trembled as I tabulated incoming stretchers, each name a prayer.
When the first of them arrived—soldiers limp but alive—I guided them gently from the convoy, offering water and warm blankets. Their eyes flickered with relief upon finding the clinic tent's lantern glow. I whispered words of comfort and traced the contours of their wounds, steadying them with both medicine and empathy.
The second wave arrived hours later. Then came a lull. I sank onto a cot, exhaustion weighing upon me, but knew better than to rest. I pressed my palm to my side where my heart pounded and inhaled deeply—drawing in courage for what might come next.
By midday, a lone runner appeared with a single envelope addressed in bold script. I recognized Shashwat's hand. My breath caught as I tore it open:
My Beloved,
The descent tested me more than the climb—the cold seeped deeper, the path grew narrower, and exhaustion gnawed at every step. Yet I felt your presence in each shard of ice and in every beat of my heart. I am coming home, as I promised.
Forever yours,
Shash
I pressed the letter to my chest, tears slipping onto the paper. Outside, the wind stirred the tent flaps, as though echoing his return. I folded the note and tucked it into my journal—a beacon amid the clinical precision of my day.
That evening, I slipped away from the clinic toward the grove. Snow fell in gentle sheets, soft as a lullaby. Lanterns emerged ahead, faint guides through the drifts. I reached the stump and found Daiwik waiting with two cups of tea. He handed me one and offered a sly smile. "One for you, one for the homecoming."
I laughed through tears. "Thank you."
We sat side by side, sipping tea and breathing in the quiet. After a moment, I stood and turned toward the grove's entrance, lantern raised high. Within minutes, I saw him: Shashwat, trudging through the snow, rifle slung at his back, face alight with relief.
I ran to him, tears freezing on my cheeks. He dropped his pack, lifted me into his arms, and held me against the night's cold. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pressing my face to his coat. He breathed me in—pine and metal and love reborn.
"I'm here," he whispered.
"You're home," I replied.
We carried each other to the stump and sat beneath lantern light. Soldiers paused on their patrols to watch the reunion, offering nods of respect. In that moment, the world felt right.
Later, in the clinic tent, I tended the last of the wounded from the pass. Each one blessed me with a grateful nod—their survival intertwined with Shashwat's return. As the final stitches closed, I realized the line between life and death, between war and peace, was as thin as a blade of ice.
By nightfall, the camp settled into cautious calm. Warm blankets replaced battle gear; candles flickered in every tent. I found Shashwat outside the grove, brushing snow from his boots.
He turned at my approach. "I kept my promise," he said softly.
I took his hands. "And I kept mine."
He pulled me close. "Always."
We kissed beneath the skeletal branches, the grove's lanterns winking like silent witnesses to our vow. In the hush that followed, I pressed a final whisper against his lips: "Together, forever."
The wind stilled, as if in solemn agreement. And so, on the edge of silence, we found our greatest peace: the surety of love's return, even in the harshest cold.