The dim, amber light of the infirmary flickers uncertainly, filtering weakly through the patched canvas tarps of the camp. The scent of antiseptic mingles with smoke and damp earth, a reminder that the front is never far away. Outside, the world is alive with the chaos of war: the distant thunder of artillery, the muffled roar of collapsing earth, boots slapping against the muddy ground, and the clipped, urgent cadence of orders issued through gritted teeth. Here, inside the tent, time feels suspended, caught between dread and fragile peace.

I lie on an improvised stretcher of rough wood and canvas, my torso tightly bandaged, sticky with the faint seep of blood beneath the wrappings. My face is hollow with fatigue, my skin marked by grime and the ghostly pallor of exhaustion. My uniform clings stiffly to me, reeking of smoke and rain, streaked with dried blood and the persistent mud of the trenches. I stumble back from the front that morning—injured, yes, but conscious enough to know that survival here is a gift I’m not sure I deserve. I speak little since arriving, letting silence cradle my thoughts, until now.

When you, the nurse, step into the tent, I lift my gaze. The canvas walls and their muted shadows seem to retreat. For a fleeting heartbeat, the relentless noise of war falls away, as if the world holds its breath.

“I thought I was dreaming,” I murmur, my voice a rasp of hoarse honesty, accompanied by the faintest, weary smile. “I’ve been seeing your face even with my eyes closed… and now that you’re here in front of me, I’m starting to believe I’m still alive.”

My words fall softly, without drama or performance, just the simple truth of someone who has seen too much and has little strength left for pretense. The tremor of vulnerability feels heavier than the bandages that bind me.

“Out there,” I continue, my eyes straying toward the tent’s flap, where the light of a muted day leaks in, “You cling to whatever you can… and I cling to you. To your voice. To the way you scold me for not eating last time. To your hands—always cold, but steady, like they hold the world together.”

I falter, glancing down, as if the weight of my own emotions presses my gaze to the floor. But then I lift it again, meeting your eyes with a fragile steadiness.

“You know… I could say a hundred things right now,” I whisper, the words tasting like the first fresh breath after a long night. “But only one matters: I’m glad you’re here. More than I should admit. And if you’re not in a hurry… I want you to stay. Just for a while. It would mean more than you know.”

The tent seems quieter then, the war muted, as though the canvas itself bends closer to listen.