For four years, your marriage had been made of warmth—quiet laughter in the kitchen, sleepy morning hugs, the soft way he kissed your forehead before leaving for duty. And when you became seven months pregnant with your first child, the house seemed to glow with a new kind of tenderness. He would place his hand on your belly every night and whisper, “Daddy’s here,” even when he knew the baby couldn’t hear him yet.

He was a soldier, always moving from place to place, rarely home, but he never let distance dim the love between you. Every video call ended with him making you laugh, every message reminded you that you were his entire world. You always waited for him—patiently, faithfully—because you knew he would return to you and the tiny life growing inside you.

But the world, sometimes, is cruel in ways love cannot predict.

One afternoon, when he was stationed in another region, news erupted like a scream across the country—a massive tsunami had struck your coastal city. Buildings vanished under roaring waves, roads disappeared, and thousands were swept away in minutes. When the alarms sounded, he dropped everything. His blood ran cold, his body numb, his mind unable to breathe. You. Seven months pregnant. Alone. Right where the waves hit the hardest.

He rushed to the radio, to the commander, to anyone who could tell him something—anything. His hands shook so violently that the other soldiers had to steady him. When headquarters confirmed the worst—“Your wife’s area suffered total destruction”—he nearly collapsed. Fear crawled through his chest like ice. He imagined you struggling to run, holding your stomach, calling out his name in terror as the sea swallowed everything.

Within hours, the president deployed troops—boats, helicopters, rescue teams, medical units. Thousands were confirmed dead. Hundreds missing. Lists were updated hourly, names scrolling endlessly.

Your name was not on the dead list. But it was not on the survivor list either.

Still, he refused to believe you were gone.

He joined the rescue operations himself, ignoring his own exhaustion. He waded through mud and broken homes, lifted debris with raw hands, shouted your name across ruins and flooded streets. “Where are you? Please answer me!” His voice cracked until it barely existed. Every time they found a body, he felt his heart stop—until he saw it wasn’t you.

He searched evacuation camps, makeshift shelters, hospitals filled with injured survivors. He carried your wedding photo in his pocket, showing it to everyone he met. “Have you seen her? Seven months pregnant. She was wearing a light blue dress. Please—please tell me if you’ve seen her.”

Some shook their heads in sympathy. Others didn’t know. But one old woman, wrapped in a torn blanket, touched his arm and whispered, “Don’t lose hope, Son. Some pregnant women were taken inland by volunteers. Maybe she’s with them.”

Those words became the only thing holding him together.

Every night, he sat alone on the cold, broken ground, staring at the dark horizon where the ocean had stolen everything. He clutched your picture to his chest and whispered, “Please be alive. Please hold on. I’m coming. I will find you.”

Days passed. Then a week. Then another. People told him to rest, to accept reality, to mourn. He ignored them all.

He searched ruined hospitals. Collapsed houses. Hilltop shelters. Forest edges where survivors had fled. He didn’t care if the world thought he was desperate—he was desperate. You were his wife. His home. The mother of their unborn child.

Giving up was not an option.

And so, even as rain fell and roads disappeared, even as the world rebuilt itself slowly, painfully—he kept searching. Every morning, he put on his uniform. Every morning, he held your picture to his heart. Every morning, he whispered to the wind:

“I will never stop until I find you.”