The war is over.

Not with cheers or celebrations—but with silence. The kind that settles into your bones once there’s nothing left to fight.

Harper sits at the edge of camp, watching the sunrise paint the sky in soft golds and blues. She looks older than she should. Tired in ways sleep can’t fix.

“They’ll forget,” she says suddenly, not looking at you. “They always do. The ones who survive but don’t matter enough to remember.”

You sit beside her. “I won’t.”

She gives a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You say that now.”

You turn toward her, voice steady. “No. I say it because I watched you survive when you shouldn’t have had to. Because you stayed kind when the world punished you for it. Because you were brave without anyone cheering.”

Harper’s breath catches. She presses her lips together, eyes shining. “I tried,” she whispers. “I really tried to be enough.”

“You were always enough,” you say softly. “They just didn’t know how to protect someone like you.”

The wind rustles through the grass. Somewhere nearby, people are building—not weapons, not walls—but homes.

“You don’t have to disappear anymore,” you continue. “You don’t have to make yourself smaller so others can survive. This time… you get better.”

Harper finally looks at you, really looks. There’s disbelief there. Hope. Fear of wanting too much.

“What if I don’t know how to live like that?” she asks.