Whispers Of War || Ziall

Lost in Combat

Niall stood behind the counter of the bakery, his hands dusted with flour as he packaged a fresh loaf of bread for Mrs. Henderson is one of the town's regulars. The bell above the door jingled, a familiar sound that usually brought a reflexive smile to his face. Today, however, his smile faded as soon as he saw Mr. Jenkins, the postman, step inside.

Mr. Jenkins, a stoic man who had been delivering mail in Maplewood Grove for as long as Niall could remember, had an uncharacteristically grave expression on his face. In his hands, he held a single piece of paper — a telegram, its edges crisp and unyielding. The sight of it sent a chill down Niall's spine, a premonition of bad news that tightened his chest and made his hands tremble.

"Morning, Niall," Mr. Jenkins said, his voice lower than usual, tinged with a somberness that was entirely out of place in the warm, yeasty air of the bakery. "I have a telegram for you."

Niall felt as if the room had suddenly tilted on its axis. Time seemed too slow as he accepted the telegram, his fingers brushing against the coarse paper. The world around him — the chatter of customers, the clink of coins, the scent of baking bread — faded into a distant murmur.

He unfolded the telegram with shaking hands, his heart pounding in his ears. The words on the paper were typed in a stark, impersonal font, yet they struck with the force of a physical blow: "Regret to inform you, Zayn Javvad Malik is reported missing in action, presumed dead. Deepest sympathies."

Niall's vision blurred as the words swam before his eyes. The bakery, once a place of comfort and routine, felt like a foreign land. He was dimly aware of Mrs. Henderson asked if he was alright of Mr. Jenkins placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, but their voices sounded distant, muffled by the roaring in his ears.

He stumbled backward, clutching the edge of the counter for support. The room spun around him, the walls closing in, as the reality of the telegram's message sank in. Zayn, his Zayn, the man he loved, the father of his unborn child, was gone. The future they had dreamed of, the life they had planned — it had all been extinguished in an instant.

Tears streamed down Niall's face, unchecked and unashamed. Grief welled up inside him, a torrent of pain and loss that threatened to sweep him away. He was vaguely aware of Mr. Jenkins guiding him to a chair, of the concerned faces of the customers, but all he could see was the telegram, the bearer of the news that had shattered his world.

In that moment, Niall felt utterly alone, adrift in a sea of sorrow with no land in sight. The baby, a symbol of their love, now served as a poignant reminder of what had been lost. Niall clutched the telegram to his chest, a lifeline to a love that now lived only in memory.

...

In the days following the receipt of the telegram, Niall found himself enveloped in a thick fog of grief. The bakery, once filled with the comforting rhythm of his daily tasks, now echoed with the hollow sound of his heartache. He moved through his chores mechanically, each movement a reminder of the void Zayn's absence had carved in his life.

At night, in the small room that had witnessed so many of their shared dreams and laughter, Niall laid awake, staring at the ceiling. The gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed seemed too mundane, too normal for a world that had just crumbled beneath him. His hand would instinctively rest on his stomach, where their unborn child grew, a bittersweet testament to a future they had planned together. Tears would stream silently down his cheeks, each one a wordless tribute to his love for Zayn.

Still, the task of sharing the news with his mother, Maura, was a mountain he had to climb. He found her in the kitchen, with her back turned to him as she hummed a soft tune while tending to a pot on the stove. The normalcy of the scene made his task even more daunting.