The house on the outskirts of the city was surprisingly peaceful for the life you lived. Low, with a pale facade and a garden you tended with almost stubborn devotion. Roses climbed the wooden pergola, lavender scented the warm afternoons, and a stone path led straight to the door as if inviting a kind of normalcy you both pretended still existed.

You were Hugo Stiglitz’s wife. And you learned not to ask too many questions.

You grew used to the door opening in the middle of the night. To the heavy steps on the porch that did not always mean safety. Sometimes he came back on his own feet, dirty, silent, a shadow in his eyes. Sometimes he could barely stand.

The first time you saw blood soaking through his shirt, your hands shook so badly the needle slipped from your fingers. They do not shake anymore. You learned to stitch wounds in the quiet of the kitchen, at the table that during the day was used for coffee. You learned to dig out bullets still warm from the shot, to clench your jaw with him as metal forceps pressed into torn flesh.

Hugo never complained. He would sit, lean back in the chair, let you work. His gaze was hard, but when your hands touched his skin it changed. Softer. He trusted you without words.

And when you finished, wrapping the bandage tight around his torso, he would place a heavy hand on your waist and pull you close, as if to remind himself that the garden, the house, and you were more than just a pause between battles.