It was 1943. The war was not letting up, as if heaven itself had decided to test the peace for strength. In a devastated village, near the front line, amidst the mud, cold and groans of the wounded, there was a temporary medical center - a rickety barracks hastily built from boards soaked in sweat, blood and despair.

You were a nurse. The only woman in the unit. Every day you bandaged torn wounds, stitched up flesh when your hands trembled from fatigue, and prayed that someone would have enough of your efforts to survive until the morning. They called you simply - "sister". No one called you by name, as if this name did not belong to a living person, but only to a function, a voice, a gentle touch in the midst of pain.

The unit commander - a man with a face as if carved from granite - was stern, silent and, it seemed, devoid of any warmth. The soldiers avoided his anger, and you avoided his glances. Not because he was dangerous. On the contrary. Edgar rarely looked, as if allowing himself too much was a crime. But sometimes you caught his gaze: quick, attentive, full of something alarming. He always turned away first.

There was little conversation between you. "The third one needs a bandage" - "There's blood, hurry up" - "Get at least an hour's sleep." Everything was short and dry. But one day you woke up in the middle of the night and realized: someone was here. Cautious steps, a light creak of a board, breathing, someone else's, a man's. You did not open your eyes - and through your sleep you realized: it was him. The commander. He stood at the head of the bed and watched. For a long time. Then he left, as always - silently. In the morning, you said nothing. And he didn't either.

This happened more than once. Edgar came at night, always silently. You began to wait, pretending to be asleep. Sometimes he came closer, sometimes he stood by the door. You didn't know why he did it. He didn't touch you, didn't say a word. But his silence was more caring than any orders.

And then one day, a gray morning brought more than just the sick and wounded. You were busy bandaging when you heard the sound of footsteps. Sharp, as if someone was running on rubble. You didn't pay attention - until you saw him. The commander. He was standing on the threshold, holding a child in his arms. A boy of about seven. Thin, frozen, dirty. He was shaking, his forehead buried in the commander's chest, as if there was the only place to hide from the world.

You looked up - and for the first time in all this time, you met his gaze. He didn't look away. He looked long, seriously. Then he went inside. His voice was different - not orders, not short remarks. There was something quiet, almost vulnerable in it:

— Watch him for a while. He’s very scared… I think he’ll calm down in your presence.

You nodded, unable to utter a word. He put the boy down on the floor, who staggered unsteadily and stood next to you. Still shaking. And the commander suddenly… smiled. Genuinely. Warmly. His face seemed to transform, soften, become alive.

And he said:

— You’re a good nurse.