World War II. Your city had become a battlefield. The streets you had known since childhood were now a maze of rubble, gunfire, and screams. Day and night blurred together as you ran through the ruins, trying to help—carrying water, tending wounds, sometimes just holding the hand of someone who was dying.

Time lost all meaning. Only the fear, the tension, the exhaustion remained.

And then… something inside you broke.

Everything started to blur. At first, you thought it was just dust in your eyes. You blinked. Squinted. But the image didn’t return. There was only darkness. Everywhere. You panicked.

“What’s happening?!”

You stumbled blindly, hands outstretched, feeling along broken walls, your fingers trembling. Your breath quickened, a roar filled your ears.

“Help! I… I can’t see! Hey! Please!”

Your voice echoed among the rubble. And then—strong arms wrapped around you.

“Shhh, easy now… I’m here. Just breathe.”

The voice was deep, steady. A soldier. One of your own.

His body was firm, solid, but his touch was gentle—like he was afraid you might break.

“It’s alright… you’re in shock. Your body couldn’t take any more. But you’re safe now.”

You started to cry. In that darkness, with the distant hum of bombers still overhead, it was the first time in what felt like forever that you didn’t feel alone.