Wounded soldier

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 flower shop that day. But by noon, my feet had carried me there anyway.

⸻

The bell above the door chimed softly when I stepped inside. The shop was warm, filled with sunlight that filtered through the glass like gold dust. Lena was kneeling by the counter, sorting through a crate of tools and ribbons. She looked up, surprised but smiling.

“Back again?” she asked. “You’re starting to make this a habit.”

“Bad ones are easier to keep,” I said. “So I thought I’d try a good one for a change.”

She laughed — that light, honest laugh that seemed to untie something inside me every time I heard it. “Then it’s a good start.”

I walked over, glancing at the wooden crate beside her. “What’s all this?”

“Repairs,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “The storm last week broke some of the planters out back. I was going to fix them today.”

“Need a hand?” I asked.

She looked at me, half amused, half curious. “You sure you know what you’re signing up for?”

“I’ve fixed worse things,” I said, and the words came out heavier than I meant them to.

Her expression softened. “Alright then,” she said quietly. “Let’s fix them together.”

⸻

Out back, the garden stretched behind the shop — a small patch of earth fenced by ivy and old wood. The ground was damp, the air sweet with the scent of wet leaves. A few clay pots lay broken near the edge, their cracks jagged but repairable.

I knelt beside one, running my fingers along the fracture lines. “You could glue it,” I said.

“I could,” she replied, kneeling beside me. “But sometimes it’s better to fill the cracks instead. It makes them stronger.”

Her words carried that familiar echo — the kind that went deeper than the surface meaning.

We worked in silence, patching the pots with careful precision. Every so often, our hands brushed, and each time, something unspoken passed between us — not quite warmth, not quite sorrow, but something real.

After a while, she asked, “Do you ever miss it? The life you had before?”

I hesitated. “Every day,” I said. “But I also know I can’t go back to it. It’s like trying to step into a river that’s already moved on.”

Lena nodded. “That’s how I felt after my brother died. I kept trying to go back to who I was before it happened. But that version of me didn’t exist anymore. I had to build someone new — piece by piece.”

I looked at her then, at the faint dirt on her hands, the sunlight catching in her hair, and I realized she wasn’t just talking about herself. She was giving me a map.

“I don’t know where to start,” I admitted.

She smiled softly. “Here’s the secret — you don’t have to. The starting point is wherever you are when you decide to try.”

⸻

By late afternoon, the repairs were done. The pots sat neatly by the fence, some of them holding new soil, waiting for seeds.

Lena stood beside me, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Not bad,” she said. “You might have a future in gardening.”

“I doubt it,” I said with a faint smile. “But this… it’s the first thing I’ve built in a long time that didn’t fall apart.”

She turned to look at me then, really look. Her eyes held something I hadn’t seen in anyone’s for a long time — belief. Not the loud kind, not forced or exaggerated, but quiet belief. The kind that says, I see you, even when you don’t see yourself.

“Evan,” she said softly, “you’re not broken beyond repair. You just stopped believing you could be put back together.”

The words hit deep — not because they were new, but because she said them like she meant them. Like she’d lived them.

For a long moment, I couldn’t find words. So I did what I’d learned to do around her — I stayed silent and let it sink in.

Then, before I could stop myself, I asked, “Lena, do you ever feel like life keeps testing how much loss you can take?”

She looked down, then back up at me. “All the time,” she said. “But I’ve learned that maybe the tests aren’t about loss. Maybe they’re about what we choose to do with the space it leaves behind.”

I nodded slowly. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” she said with a faint smile. “But simple doesn’t mean easy.”

⸻

We sat on the porch steps after that, watching the sky fade from blue to amber. A light breeze rustled through the leaves. The world around us seemed to slow — as if the air itself was listening.

Lena broke the silence first. “Do you ever write? You seem like someone who has a lot inside his head.”

“I used to,” I said. “Before everything changed. Words used to help me make sense of things. Then they started to feel empty.”

“Maybe they weren’t empty,” she said softly. “Maybe they were just waiting for the right reason to come back.”

I smiled faintly. “You really believe that?”

She nodded. “I believe everything comes back — when you’re ready to meet it again.”

Her words made something in me shift, quiet but real. That night, after I walked home, I found myself at the table again, pen in hand, journal open. It had been months since I’d written more than a few lines. But now, the words came easier — like they’d been waiting for me too.

“Today I helped mend broken things. Pots, soil, maybe even a small part of myself. There’s something sacred about working with your hands — about feeling the earth again. Lena says broken doesn’t mean finished. I think she’s right. Maybe some things are meant to fall apart, just so they can be rebuilt stronger, truer. I still hurt, but the hurt feels less like an ending now, and more like the middle of something.”

I set the pen down and looked out the window. The moon hung low, casting a pale light over the daisy in its jar. Its petals had begun to droop, but somehow, it still looked beautiful. Still alive.

Maybe that was what healing looked like — not perfect, not new, just alive.

⸻

The next morning, I found a small envelope slipped under my door. My name was written across it in soft, careful handwriting. Inside was a single card.

“Come by the shop tomorrow. I want to show you something.”

—L

I read the note twice, smiling despite myself.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I was looking forward to tomorrow.