The night had sunk deep and heavy over the line, pressing down like a weight. The air was thick with damp earth and fear, and the only light came from the weak glow of a candle stub wedged into the wall of the dugout. Outside, the world was nothing but shadow and the endless whisper of the wind over the wire.

Raleigh sat on his bunk, his hands clenched around his knees. He tried to breathe quietly, tried to listen for something other than the pounding of his heart. He’d never been fond of the dark — not even as a boy — and out here, the dark wasn’t just the absence of light. It was alive. It breathed, it groaned, it waited.

Stanhope had been writing at the little table, his face half-lit, half-lost in gloom. He looked up now and then, seeing the tremor in Raleigh’s shoulders, the way the young officer’s eyes darted toward the black mouth of the trench outside.

“You all right, Raleigh?” he asked quietly, setting down his pen.

Raleigh tried to smile. “Yes, sir. Just… the wind sounds strange tonight.”

Stanhope gave a small grunt. “It does that,” he said, though he knew it wasn’t the wind Raleigh was afraid of. He’d seen it before — the stiff upper lip trembling just a little, the lad too proud to admit the dark made him shake.

Then came the sound — that low, rising whine that froze every man’s breath. “Down!” Stanhope shouted, diving forward.

The shell hit somewhere just above the parapet, and the whole dugout shook. Earth rained from the ceiling, candles went out, and the air filled with choking dust and the long echoing boom of the blast.

Raleigh was on the floor, curled up, hands over his ears, trying not to cry out. The dark was total now — the kind that made you forget what light ever looked like.

Stanhope found him by feel, reached out and grabbed his shoulder. “It’s all right, lad. It’s over.” His voice was hoarse, steady, cutting through the silence that followed the explosion.

Raleigh’s breath came in gasps. “I can’t— I can’t see anything—”

“I know. Candle’s out. Just the dark.” Stanhope’s hand stayed firm on his shoulder. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Outside, men were calling out — checking who was hit, who wasn’t. But Stanhope stayed where he was, crouched beside Raleigh in the dark. The two of them breathing. Listening. Alive.

After a long while, Raleigh whispered, “I hate the dark.”

Stanhope gave a soft laugh, though there was nothing funny about it. “So do I,” he said. “Always have. But we’ll sit in it together, eh?”

Raleigh nodded, and though Stanhope couldn’t see it, he could feel the tremor in the boy ease a little.

The dark stayed thick around them, and every sound still made Raleigh flinch — but with Stanhope’s hand resting there, solid and warm and real, the night felt a little less infinite, a little less cruel.

When the candle was finally lit again, Stanhope looked at Raleigh and smiled — just a small, tired smile. “See? Told you the world was still here.”

And Raleigh, pale and shaken but breathing steady now, smiled back. “Yes, sir. I suppose it is.”

Outside, the guns started again in the distance, but inside the dugout, for a few brief moments, the dark had lost its hold.