Wounded soldier

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 arrives like breathing — unnoticed, but life itself.

I sat with that sentence for a long while. Then I smiled.

⸻

Lena noticed the change in me before I ever mentioned it.

“You’re different,” she said one afternoon as I helped her stack empty flower pots behind the counter.

“Different how?” I asked, trying not to smile.

She shrugged lightly. “You don’t flinch at silence anymore. You used to sit like you were waiting for the world to hurt you again. Now you just… exist.”

I looked at her, then at the soft mess of hair that had fallen across her face. “That’s one way of putting it.”

She grinned. “I’ll take it as progress.”

Progress. The word felt good, solid.

We spent that afternoon rearranging the shop. She asked me to help repaint the old wooden sign that hung outside. The white paint had faded under the years of sun and rain, the letters almost invisible.

As I brushed the new paint along the edges, I asked, “Why not just get a new one?”

She smiled without looking up. “Because I like this one. It’s been through storms and still stands. Sometimes the old things deserve to stay — just with a little touch of care.”

I didn’t say it out loud, but her words landed somewhere deep. She could’ve been talking about the sign. Or maybe about me.

⸻

A few evenings later, she invited me to walk down by the lake behind her shop. The sunset was laying gold across the water, and the air smelled faintly of lilac and rain.

We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to.

She walked with her shoes in her hand, her bare feet brushing the cool grass. I followed, watching the small ripples her reflection made in the shallow water.

After a while, she stopped and looked at the horizon. “You know,” she said quietly, “I used to think peace was something people found after everything made sense. But maybe it’s just learning to live even when things don’t.”

I turned to her. “Did you come up with that, or did you read it somewhere?”

She laughed softly. “Maybe both.”

The sound of her laughter melted into the still air. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed that sound — not hers in particular, but laughter in general. The kind that doesn’t hurt to hear.

“I used to write things like that,” I said.

“Used to?”

“I stopped after the accident. Words felt pointless when I couldn’t feel anything at all.”

She tilted her head slightly. “And now?”

I smiled faintly. “Now they’re starting to mean something again.”

She looked at me for a long moment, then said, “You should show me sometime. What you write.”

I hesitated. “Maybe. When it’s ready.”

Her smile was soft but knowing. “That’s fair.”

⸻

The following week, the town held its small annual market fair — nothing grand, just music, handmade crafts, and the smell of roasted corn drifting through the streets. Lena decided to set up a stall to sell her flower arrangements, and she asked if I’d help.

I didn’t say no.

That morning, we carried baskets of freshly tied bouquets to the market square. The sky was bright, the kind of blue that almost looked painted. Children ran past with ribbons, and old couples walked hand in hand, smiling at everyone.

Lena’s stall was a simple table covered in linen, with jars of wildflowers catching the sunlight. There was something beautiful about it — unpolished but honest.

People came and went, drawn by the colors and her warmth. I stood beside her, mostly silent, watching her talk to everyone like she’d known them her whole life. Her kindness wasn’t loud; it was steady.

At one point, an elderly woman stopped by, buying a bouquet of daisies. “These are beautiful,” she said, smiling. “You two make a lovely pair.”

Lena laughed softly, cheeks turning pink. I pretended not to hear it, though my heart did something strange — a quiet flutter I hadn’t felt in years.

Later, as we packed up the unsold flowers, I said, “You handled that well.”

“Handled what?”

“The compliment.”

She smirked. “You mean the part where the woman called us a lovely pair?”

“Exactly that.”

“Well,” she said, glancing up with a teasing glint in her eyes, “she’s not entirely wrong.”

I froze for a moment, unsure how to respond. But before I could say anything, she turned away, pretending to focus on arranging the leftover blooms.

Maybe she meant it playfully. Maybe she didn’t. Either way, the words lingered long after we left the market.

⸻

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat by the window with the small fern she’d given me weeks ago — the one that had nearly dried out but was now green again.

I watched its leaves move gently in the breeze, and I thought of Lena — her quiet strength, her soft laughter, the way she carried her pain without bitterness.

Something inside me stirred, slow and cautious.

It wasn’t infatuation. It wasn’t escape.

It was something deeper — the recognition of someone whose heart spoke the same language as mine.

I picked up my pen and wrote:

“Maybe love isn’t finding someone who takes away your wounds, but someone who sees them and stays. Maybe peace isn’t forgetting the war — it’s learning how to live after it.”

I looked at those words for a long time. They didn’t feel like something I’d written; they felt like something I’d finally understood.

⸻

The next morning, I brought her a copy of what I’d written. She was arranging tulips when I handed her the page.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Something I thought you’d understand.”

She read it silently, her lips moving slightly with each word. When she finished, she looked up, eyes shining with that familiar gentleness. “Evan,” she said softly, “that’s beautiful.”

“Maybe,” I said, smiling faintly. “But I wouldn’t have written it without you.”

For a moment, she just looked at me — long and quiet, like she was trying to memorize the way I said it. Then she whispered, “I’m glad you didn’t stop writing.”

And in that moment, standing there in the small flower shop with sunlight pouring through the window and the scent of tulips between us, I realized something simple — I was happy.

Not perfectly, not permanently.

But honestly.

And maybe that was enough for now.