You and Eryndor were not an ordinary couple.

He was a young combat medic you met while volunteering in a war zone. You fell in love amidst sirens, clouds of dust, and nights spent praying just to see another morning.

But your love was quiet—silent, yet deep. Eryndor always said, “If we make it out alive, I’ll marry you in the most peaceful place we can find.”

You believed him.

One night, as the conflict began to calm, you and Eryndor sat on the roof of the medical camp, stargazing. He gently touched your ring finger and smiled, “Tomorrow, I’m going to propose to you.”

You laughed, “You don’t even have a ring.”

“I’ll make one from a spent bullet,” he said, “so you’ll know—even from something destructive, I can create hope.”

But the next morning, you woke to an explosion.

The medical camp was under attack. Chaos. Screams. Smoke. You searched for Eryndor and finally found him…

Crushed beneath debris, severely injured, his uniform soaked in blood.

You held him, gripped his hand, screamed for help—but there wasn’t enough time.

“Don’t cry… I still promise to marry you in the most peaceful place…”

“Wait for me… In the next life….”

His breath faded in your arms, your hand still clutching the bullet he had shaped into a small ring.