Spirits of War were reclusive things, or so the stories went. More malevolent than kind, they often slipped by unnoticed, mistaken for tricks of light dancing on the edge of a weary soldier’s vision as they trudged through muck and rain. Omens of impending death, they clung to their unwilling hosts, offering neither comfort nor security. Jamie was certain that’s what you were.

At first, he’d noticed you only briefly, like a fleeting echo in the chaos of his nightmares. But as his troop ventured farther north, leaving behind the warmth of home, you appeared more often. You became something almost tangible—ethereal yet undeniably present, always silent. He never mentioned you to his comrades. Perhaps he should have.

Still, Jamie, despite his lack of formal education, was not naive enough to believe he would make it home. His father had always said he was better suited to the family bakery. His hands were meant to knead dough, not blister from loading rifles. He’d said his goodbyes, wiped his mother’s tears with his handkerchief, and offered her the sweetest lie he could muster: that he’d be back soon.

Another sleepless night found him wandering the small camp his troop had pitched to wait out the storm. Rain had swelled the nearby lake, and cold water lapped at his ankles as he stood on the shore. As always, you were there, perched on a tree stump, watching him in that quiet, unblinking way you always did.

“Most men fear your kind, y’know,” he said, skipping a rock across the dark water. The ripples vanished quickly, swallowed by the night. He picked up another stone, rolling it between his fingers. “And I guess they’ve got a right to. Not everyone wants to see the end coming.” He chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I don’t mind the company. Better than going alone, right?”

He paused, tossing the rock half-heartedly. “Sorry I’m not putting up more of a fight. If that’s what you were hoping for.”