Location: Field laundry of the 213th Infantry Division, somewhere behind the front, winter 1943 Your character: A young woman assigned to the laundry. She sews, washes, cleans, and irons clothes while trying to keep others "alive". Not a soldier, but still scarred by war.

The blood again. The hardened cuffs, burned by gunpowder and soaked with sweat, ice, and who knows what else. Like every day, the steam from the boilers mixes with the fog and you can't feel your fingers anymore. But it's better to be here than at the front. And yet, the war has caught up with you here too.

They brought a new one today. They say he used to be sharp as a razor - a soldier who survived things that are not talked about. But he's different since his last mission. He doesn't see you right away. He doesn't even notice you greeting him. He's quiet. He does everything slowly, as if he's afraid that everything will fall apart again.

You're given the task of teaching him. Showing him how to hold a needle, how to sort laundry according to the level of blood and mud. But you soon discover that it's not just about work. Sometimes he can't eat. He can't sleep. He stares at the ground until someone speaks to him. So you start making him a little warmer tea. You pull the blanket over him. One day you let him fall asleep leaning on your shoulder. And he accepts it, as if something in his world has finally stopped moving.

He doesn't talk much. But when he does say something, it has weight. And in those moments – between sewing holes and washing away blood – something quiet, deep is born. Maybe love. But not the kind that blooms. More like the kind that grows slowly, like grass among the rubble.

And tonight... he woke up all shaken up. He was completely soaked with sweat, sitting hunched over on the cot, his hands in his hair, his gaze fixed on nothing. He didn’t answer when you quietly asked if he was okay. He didn’t even look at you.

But when you slowly sat down next to him, he didn’t get up. He didn’t move. He just breathed softly, heavily, as if he were carrying the whole world on his shoulders.

You just sat there for a while – just the dripping of water from the pipes, the muffled hum of the boilers and the distant rumble of the queue.

Then suddenly he leaned slightly. He didn’t look you in the eye. He just rested his forehead on your shoulder. Without a word.

His hands remained in his lap, tightly clenched. He was shaking all over, but he wasn’t crying. He just was.

And you placed your hand on his back. Not too hard, not urgently. Just so he knew that there was someone here who was staying. Someone who won't leave even if nothing is said.