Wounded soldier

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 evening, the place already felt like home. I didn’t ask her to stay; she just did.

And somehow, that meant more than any promise could.

She paints now — not just for herself, but for the small art gallery in town. Sometimes I watch her from across the room, the way her fingers dance with color, and I think about how love doesn’t always roar; sometimes it hums softly in the background, steady and patient.

We still talk about her brother sometimes. Not with tears anymore, but with warmth. We keep one of his guitar picks in a glass frame above the fireplace — her idea.

Every now and then, I catch her looking at it, smiling faintly, as though she’s talking to him without words.

I understand that kind of conversation now.

⸻

My writing has changed too.

I used to write from pain — to make sense of it, to cage it in words so it couldn’t consume me. Now, I write because I want to remember what peace sounds like.

I’ve started working on a book. Not fiction, not a journal — something in between. Pages filled with memories, reflections, and small lessons the world taught me the hard way. Lena calls it “The Quiet After.”

The title fits.

Sometimes she reads over my shoulder while I write. She doesn’t correct me or ask questions. She just reads, then rests her head against my shoulder and says, “Keep going.”

And I do.

⸻

Life has settled into a rhythm that feels both new and old.

We open the shop together now. It’s no longer just Lena’s Flowers. She changed the sign one morning while I was still asleep. When I came by later, it read:

“The Soldier’s Garden.”

I told her it sounded too sentimental. She just smiled and said, “Good. That means it’s honest.”

The town has grown fond of her — of us, really. The same people who once pitied me for disappearing into solitude now stop by to ask about the shop, to buy flowers, to tell us how peaceful the place feels.

Sometimes I wonder if that peace they feel is what healing looks like when it spills out of you — when it stops being yours alone and starts touching everything around you.

⸻

There are still days when the past whispers.

When I drive by the old hospital road or hear a song that reminds me of the person I used to be. But those memories no longer drag me under. They simply pass through — like wind brushing over still water.

Clara wrote once, months after we last spoke.

Her letter was brief, kind. She said she was doing better, that she’d learned to forgive herself too. I didn’t write back, but I smiled when I read it. Some goodbyes don’t need replies — just peace.

⸻

This morning, as I sit by the window, I watch Lena tending to the flowers outside. The sky is pale blue, the sun rising slowly behind the hills. There’s a thin mist over the field, soft and almost sacred.

She’s humming again — a tune I don’t recognize but one that feels like home. I find myself writing as I watch her:

“There’s a kind of beauty that grows in silence.

Not the kind that demands attention, but the kind that endures —

like light on water, or love that stays even when the world forgets how to be kind.”

I pause, pen hovering above the page.

I remember who I used to be — the man who couldn’t forgive, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t look at his reflection without seeing everything that broke him.

And now I see someone else — still scarred, still imperfect, but no longer afraid of his own heart.

Maybe that’s what survival really means. Not the absence of pain, but the courage to keep living with it — to make something gentle out of what once tore you apart.

⸻

Later, when Lena comes back inside, she sets a small mug of tea beside me and leans against the window.

“What are you writing today?” she asks.

I smile. “About you, mostly.”

She laughs softly. “Then make sure I sound mysterious and brilliant.”

“You already do,” I say.

She pretends to roll her eyes, but I can see the faint blush on her cheeks. Then she looks out at the garden, her voice softer. “It’s beautiful this morning, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I say. “Feels different, though.”

“How so?”

“Quieter,” I reply. “Like the world’s holding its breath before something begins.”

She glances at me, smiling. “Maybe it’s not something beginning. Maybe it’s just life continuing.”

I look at her — really look — and I realize she’s right. This isn’t the beginning of something new or the end of something old. It’s simply living.

And that’s more than I ever thought I’d have.

⸻

When night falls, I walk down to the lake again, just like I used to. The air is cool, the stars clear and sharp. I bring my journal with me, flipping through the pages — all the words that once carried pain but now carry peace.

At the very end, I write one final entry:

“I am no longer the wounded soldier.

The battle is over. The scars remain, but they don’t hurt anymore.

I have learned that healing isn’t forgetting — it’s remembering without bleeding.

And love — real love — isn’t the fire that burns away pain.

It’s the quiet light that stays when the fire is gone.”

I close the journal, feeling the cool wind brush against my face. The water reflects the moon like glass. Somewhere in the distance, I hear Lena’s voice calling me home.

I turn back toward the path, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m leaving anything behind.

I’m walking toward something that’s mine.

Something that finally feels like peace.