The sun blazed mercilessly over the open field, baking the line of motionless soldiers who stood at perfect attention. Rows upon rows of uniformed bodies, sweat soaking into collars, boots rooted in place like trees too proud to sway. And yet, it wasn’t the heat that made his throat tighten.

It was the laughter.

The cries of joy, the broken sobs, the clatter of boots forgotten in a sprint across the grass. Families poured in, weaving between the lines, wrapping arms around sons and daughters, lifting them from the stillness with kisses, tears, and the soft, sacred touch that broke the spell.

But he remained.

Second row from the front, third to the left. That was his place. He hadn’t moved. Couldn’t move. Not until someone came. Not until they touched him.

No one came.

One by one, the others were freed from their stillness. A mother clinging to her son. A child hoisted into the air by a laughing father. Even the quiet nods between brothers said more than words could.

He stood silent.

Minutes turned to hours. The sun crept across the sky, shadows shrinking, then stretching. His eyes stayed forward, but they saw everything. Every reunion. Every goodbye that never really felt like one. He stood among hundreds but felt like the only one left behind.

Because he was.

There were people—helpers, volunteers—assigned to touch the untouched, to bring the forgotten back into motion. But they came late, always late, when the field was nearly empty and joy had already been packed away.

He knew the rules. No movement until the touch.

So he waited.

And in that waiting, he didn’t think of battles, or uniforms, or even names. He thought of what it would feel like to be chosen. Just once.