All Chapters of Wounded soldier: Chapter 1
- Chapter 10
15 chapters
Chapter Fifteen — A Soldier’s Dawn
A year has passed since that morning by the lake. Sometimes I still wake before dawn, when the world is gray and hushed, and for a brief moment I expect to feel that familiar ache — the weight of everything I lost. But it doesn’t come anymore. What comes instead is quiet. Not emptiness, but peace. The kind that stays. I live differently now. Slower. Gentler. The house feels lived in — not haunted. There are books on the table, a half-written journal by the window, a fern that’s outgrown its pot, and two mugs always waiting in the kitchen. Outside, the garden Lena and I built together is beginning to bloom again. Even in the cold, some flowers refuse to surrender. She says it’s because I overwater them, but I think it’s because they’ve learned the same lesson I have — that life doesn’t always wait for the perfect season to begin again. ⸻ Lena lives here now. She moved in quietly, like she does everything. One morning she brought her sketchbooks and a box of teacups, and by the
Chapter Fourteen — Where the Light Finally Stays
The days after that night with Lena felt like living in the afterglow of a quiet miracle. Not the kind that bursts in color or thunder, but the kind that hums softly beneath the skin — steady, real, unpretentious. For so long, I had measured my life by what I’d lost. By the echoes of laughter that no longer belonged to me, by the letters I never sent, by the things I buried just to keep breathing. But now, for the first time, I started to measure it by what I still had — the warmth of the sun on my face in the mornings, the sound of Lena’s voice calling my name across the field, the simple comfort of being understood. Healing hadn’t arrived all at once. It had crept in quietly, disguised as small moments: the way she smiled when I said something clumsy, the way her hands steadied the world when everything felt uncertain, the way she looked at me — not as someone broken, but as someone becoming whole again. I’d spent years running from my scars. Now, I could finally look at them an
Chapter Thirteen — The Fear of Falling Again
Peace had become a strange kind of habit. I woke to it, breathed it in, carried it with me through my days like something fragile but familiar. Yet the closer I grew to Lena, the more I felt that quiet unease — that soft whisper of fear that says, don’t trust this too much, it might leave too. I’d lost before. And part of me believed that anything good was just another prelude to pain. ⸻ It was late one afternoon when Lena told me she’d be leaving town for a few days. “My aunt’s not been well,” she said, her voice steady as she tied a bunch of wild roses together. “She lives two towns over. I promised I’d visit.” I nodded. “How long will you be gone?” “Three days, maybe four.” It wasn’t much, but something in me tightened anyway. “That’s good of you,” I said, trying to sound casual. She smiled faintly. “You’ll survive without me?” “I’ll try,” I said, forcing a small grin. But when she left the next morning, the shop closed and her laughter gone from the air, the silence tha
Chapter Twelve — The Weight That Lifted Slowly
The days after meeting Clara felt different. Not in any grand, cinematic way — just quieter inside me. There was no dramatic relief, no sudden peace, just the simple absence of heaviness. The kind you only notice when it’s gone. I had imagined closure would come like a door slamming shut, but it didn’t. It came like a window opening slightly, letting in air I hadn’t realized I’d been living without. The world around me hadn’t changed — the same trees, the same sky, the same routine — but I saw it all differently. The mornings felt lighter, the wind sounded softer, and for the first time in years, I didn’t dread the sound of my own heartbeat. I started writing again. At first, it was only a few lines — nothing polished, nothing profound. Just fragments, thoughts that came when I stopped trying to silence them. One morning, as the sun broke through the curtains, I found myself writing a line that made me pause: Sometimes healing doesn’t arrive like a sunrise. Sometimes it arrive
Chapter Eleven — The Return of the Unspoken
Peace is a fragile thing. It doesn’t shatter with noise; it shatters in silence — in that single breath between comfort and the memory of what once broke you. For weeks, my days had followed a quiet rhythm. The mornings belonged to the field and the sound of wind brushing through the trees; the afternoons, to Lena’s shop and her laughter echoing softly between flowers and wood. I’d started to think maybe life could be rebuilt after all. But healing never comes without interruption. It was late morning when the letter arrived. No sender name, just my own written in neat, familiar handwriting that made my stomach tighten. I hadn’t seen that handwriting in almost two years. For a long time, I didn’t open it. I just stared at it sitting on the table, edges slightly bent from the rain that must’ve caught the postman on his route. The weight of it felt heavier than it should’ve been — not from the paper inside, but from everything it carried with it. Her name was Clara. The one who’d
Chapter Ten — What We Choose to Keep
I didn’t sleep much the night after her note. I kept reading it, over and over again — not because the words were complicated, but because of how simple they were. Come by the shop tomorrow. I want to show you something. Just that. Yet it felt like an invitation to something more than a visit — like she was offering me a window into the quiet spaces of her life. Morning came with a soft drizzle. The kind that paints the air gray but never really falls. The earth smelled clean again, and the fields shimmered faintly under the weight of the mist. I walked to the shop slower than usual, not because I was tired, but because part of me didn’t want to rush whatever was waiting. When I got there, the door was already open. The small bell chimed as I stepped inside, and there she was — Lena — sitting by the counter with her sketchbook open, pencil in hand. The light from the window fell gently across her face, softening everything. She looked up as soon as she heard me. “You came,” she s
Chapter Nine — The Weight of What Remains
There are certain mornings that arrive without warning — the kind that pull you out of sleep with a sense that something’s about to change. That morning was like that. The air carried the scent of rain that had fallen overnight, and somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed as if reminding the world it was still alive. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands clasped loosely between my knees, and let the silence breathe around me. I’d dreamt of the accident again — the sound of metal folding, glass shattering, the sudden stillness after the chaos. Even after all these months, it still found its way back into my nights. Some memories don’t fade; they just learn how to wait. The daisy on the windowsill had begun to wilt at the edges. I traced one petal with my finger, careful not to break it. I thought about what Lena had said — how grief could be soil. Maybe this was part of it. Maybe some things have to decay before they can make room for something new. I didn’t plan to go to the
Chapter Eight — The Weight of Quiet Things
There are days when healing feels almost possible — days when the air is softer, and the memories don’t ache as much when they pass through you. Then there are days when it all returns like a flood — every sound too loud, every silence too heavy. Today felt like both. I woke early, before dawn again. The house was colder than usual, the kind of chill that clings to your bones even after the fire’s been out for hours. I made coffee, watched the steam curl from the cup, and thought about Lena’s daisy by the window. It hadn’t wilted yet. Its petals were still open, still reaching for the light even in the dimness. I envied that. The stubbornness of something so small refusing to give up. By midmorning, I found myself walking back to the flower shop. I didn’t tell myself any lies this time — I knew I wanted to see her. The path was familiar now, the air filled with the scent of pine and damp soil. My boots made soft impressions in the dirt road, each step a little lighter than the las
Chapter Seven — A Light Beneath the Quiet
I didn’t expect to see her again so soon. But life has a way of repeating the things it wants you to learn. Three mornings later, I was walking down the dirt path toward Miller Creek, hands in my jacket pockets, the cold air biting gently at my skin. The mist hung low again, curling around the tall grass and the broken fence line like a secret. I wasn’t thinking about much — maybe that’s why I almost didn’t notice her at first. Lena was sitting by the edge of the creek, sketchbook open, her feet just touching the water. The soft light of dawn wrapped around her like something sacred. For a moment, I stopped walking and just watched. There was something peaceful about her — the way she didn’t rush the world, the way she let silence have its space. I had forgotten that silence could be shared. She looked up and smiled, not surprised to see me. “You walk early,” she said, closing her sketchbook gently. “Couldn’t sleep,” I admitted, stepping closer. “The mornings feel quieter before
Chapter Six — The Weight of Small Steps
The morning after felt different. Not louder, not brighter — just… lighter. As if the air itself had decided to forgive me. The fields shimmered with dew, and a soft wind tugged gently at the loose edge of my shirt. I stood on the porch with a cup of coffee — this time, actually drinking it — and watched the world move quietly. The fence I’d repaired two days ago stood proud against the morning light. A small victory, but it felt like more than that. It felt like a sign that I was beginning to piece myself back together. For months, I’d avoided the town. The idea of faces, voices, questions — all of it felt like too much. But that morning, something stirred inside me. A whisper that said, you can’t heal in silence forever. Maybe it was time to step outside the safety of my isolation, even if only for a while. I grabbed my old jacket from the hook by the door. It still smelled faintly of smoke and rain — a scent that carried too many memories. I hesitated for a moment, hand resting