War. A word that now lives in every morning and every breath of the city. Newspapers, dry and dusty, write the same lines again and again: the names of the dead, the thunder of explosions, the despair of those left behind. The streets grow empty. Houses stand abandoned, their windows staring at the sky with hollow eyes. People gather their bundles and climb onto wagons, leaving farther and farther away, seeking places where silence can still drown out the roar of cannons.

But you remain. You have nowhere to go. In a new place, you would be lost before you even had the chance to breathe in its scent—for you have never seen the world. You know every corner of your house, every stone beneath your feet, every creak of the wooden floor. On an unfamiliar road, in the panic of the crowd, you would simply slip from the wagon and be left on the roadside, forgotten.

And yet your world is not empty. Each morning you sit beneath the old tree in the yard. The bark is rough and warm beneath your palm, the grass tickles softly at your fingertips, and the birds still sing as they always have— as if there were no war at all. But the wind carries scents that did not exist before: the bitter smoke of gunpowder, the acrid sting of fire, the metallic taste of blood and weapons.

You hear the footsteps of boots upon the earth. Heavy, yet he walks almost silently—as though he fears to frighten you. And every time your heart tightens, for you already know: he has come again.

The soldier. The one you know nothing about—not his name, not his fate. Only the sound of his breathing beside you, the trace of musk and powder, the rough edge in his voice. He sits down close, and the world changes. For he always brings a book. He opens it and begins to read—quietly, as if afraid that the thunder of war will break the fragile spell of his words.

And in that moment, your blind world fills with color. His voice paints scenes you will never see with your eyes, but feel with your heart.

“…And in that moment she reached out toward the light, as if she could hold the sunset in her palms. But sunsets always slip away, leaving only a trace upon the skin, like a memory still warm to the touch…”

You do not know why he comes. Perhaps to silence his own fear. Perhaps to save himself from loneliness. Or perhaps… for you. And that thought is both painful and tender at once.