The rain had not stopped for three days.
Each morning, mist clung to the fields outside the hospital, and the smell of wet earth drifted through the canvas flaps. Inside, nurses whispered and boots splashed through puddles of mud tracked in from the front.
James Whitaker sat upright on his cot, a blanket draped over his shoulders, watching the world from the edge of his recovery. His arm was still in a sling, but his eyes were clear now — brighter, more alive.
Across the tent, Elena was bandaging another soldier's leg. When she noticed him watching, she smiled faintly.
"You're healing faster than expected," she said as she approached.
"I've had a very determined nurse," James replied.
She laughed quietly, shaking her head. "Or perhaps you're just stubborn."
"Perhaps both," he said. "But if I'm to be sent back to the front, I'd rather go with at least one more reason to return."
Elena hesitated, her hands stilling over the edge of his cot. "And what reason might that be?"
He smiled, slow and meaningful. "You."
Her breath caught, and for a moment, the noise of the camp faded away. The words were soft — almost lost under the sound of rain — but they reached her heart as clearly as if he'd shouted them.
She stood, flustered. "You shouldn't say such things, Lieutenant."
"I know," he said, his smile fading into something gentler. "But war makes cowards of us in every way except honesty."
Later that night, when the wounded had drifted into uneasy sleep, James sat under the dim glow of a lantern, a scrap of paper balanced on his knee. He wrote slowly, painfully — his injured hand trembling, but his heart sure.
My dear Nurse Moreau,
If ever I return to England, it will not be the green fields I miss, but the sight of your eyes when the morning light breaks through the tent canvas.
You said once that you do not believe in miracles. I did not either — until the day I opened mine and found you there.
Yours, through every battle,
— James
He folded the note, unsure if he would ever have the courage to give it to her. Still, writing it eased something inside him — a small defiance against the darkness that seemed to swallow everything else.
Days later, orders came. James was to be transferred east, closer to the fighting. Elena found out during morning rounds. Her heart sank as the commanding officer read the list of names.
That evening, James approached her quietly by the edge of the camp, where the last light of sunset painted the sky in pale gold.
"They're moving us tomorrow," he said. "It seems the war is impatient."
Elena swallowed hard. "So soon?"
He nodded. "Too soon. I had hoped for more time."
She pressed her lips together, searching for words that wouldn't come. Instead, she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small white handkerchief embroidered with her initials.
"Then take this," she said softly. "So you don't forget the people who patched you together."
He took it carefully, as if it were something sacred. "I could never forget."
They stood there for a moment, the silence between them heavier than the thunder of distant guns. Then he said, almost in a whisper:
"If letters can still find their way through this madness… may I write to you?"
Elena met his gaze — steady, full of something she couldn't name. "Yes," she said. "Write to me."
That night, she opened her journal again.
"He leaves tomorrow.
I told myself not to grow attached, yet here I am — waiting for a letter that hasn't even been written.
I fear for him, and for myself.
Is it foolish to hope in times like these?"
She closed the journal, clutching it to her chest. Outside, the night was quiet — too quiet — but somewhere deep within, the faintest whisper of her heart answered:
Hope is the only thing that survives the war.