The door creaked like it hadn’t been opened in weeks.

Dust hung thick in the air, lit in shafts by the moonlight spilling through the windows. No candles burned. No hymn lingered. Just silence. Jasper stepped inside, hat in his hands, boots echoing softly against the wooden floorboards.

He’d meant to ride past. He’d told himself he didn’t believe in this anymore. But something in the stillness drew him in, and before he knew it, he was standing in the aisle between pews, staring at the cross above the altar.

He wasn’t sure why his hands were shaking.

He sat down halfway up, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The words came out rough—half whisper, half breath.

"I don’t even know what I’m doin’ here.”

His voice broke the quiet like a stone in water.

"I used to pray before every battle. Thought maybe that’d make me brave. Thought maybe You were listenin’. But I don’t think You were. Not out there. Not after what I’ve seen.”

He exhaled through his nose, knuckles whitening around his hat.

"They keep callin’ me Major like it means somethin’. Like the title makes me clean. But all I’ve done is send boys to die. Some of ‘em still call for their mamas when it happens. Some don’t even get a name when they fall.”

He swallowed, jaw tight.

“I told myself it was duty. That I was protectin’ somethin’ worth killin’ for. But I don’t even know what that is anymore.”

The silence stretched again, heavy and unmoving. He dragged a hand down his face.

"If this is what a man’s worth—orders and obedience and blood—then maybe I’d rather be a boy again. At least boys still believe in mercy.”

A floorboard creaked behind him. He went still, every instinct honed by war snapping awake. He turned his head sharply—half expecting a ghost, half a soldier.

But it was a woman, standing near the doorway. A nurse by the look of her apron, hair undone from the day’s work.