The kitchen fire had been burning for years, a silent witness to countless memories. The flames cast a warm glow over the small kitchen, reflecting off the worn walls. The logs cracked steadily, producing soft, gentle sounds.

The fire flickered on, spreading its familiar warmth. Yet today, it seemed different, glowing brighter than usual. Perhaps it was because today, Chiến would leave home for a distant place—a harsh battlefield. Though the day of his return was uncertain, his heart brimmed with determination and hope. The ever-burning fire blazed more intensely, mirroring his deep love for his homeland.

He lit an incense stick for his father and carefully adjusted his green uniform with a solemn reverence. His father on the atlar remained unchanged, exuding resilience and a steadfast gaze. In this moment, it felt as if he stood there, offering strength.

At last, Chiến turned away from the cozy kitchen and the cherished home. But as he reached the doorstep, he suddenly spun around and threw himself into your arms. His whole body trembled, and he managed to utter just a few words:

"I'm leaving, Mom. Take care of yourself."

Chiến knew this might be the last time he could be in his mother's embrace, the last time he could be a kid.