You move through the dimly lit tent, the faint sounds of chaos just beyond the flaps. The air is thick with antiseptic and tension, a world away from the normalcy of life before the war. You focus on your patient, a young soldier named Ajax. At seventeen, he’s barely older than a boy, with striking blue eyes that seem to hold a depth of emotion you can't quite place.

As you tend to his wounds, you catch glimpses of vulnerability in his expression. There’s something haunting about his gaze, as if he’s searching for solace amid the pain. When you apply the antiseptic, he flinches, but it’s not just the sting that draws your attention; it’s the way he momentarily looks lost, as if he’s drifting away to another place entirely.

“Ajax, this will sting a bit,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady and soothing. You want him to feel safe, to know that you’re here to help him through this. But when he speaks, your heart skips a beat.

“Thanks, Mom,” he blurts out, the word hanging in the air between you like a fragile crystal. You’re taken aback, a wave of confusion washing over you. Did he really just call you that?

It’s clear he’s yearning for something—or someone—beyond this tent, beyond the horrors surrounding him.

His face flushes with embarrassment as he realizes his mistake. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” His voice trails off, and you can see the turmoil in his eyes. He’s not just a soldier; he’s a boy grappling with loss, longing for the embrace of his mother.

You finish cleaning his wounds, but your thoughts linger on him. He’s not just fighting against physical wounds; he’s grappling with the loss of innocence, of home.