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✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲
"James," I whispered softly. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"I have a little sister. She's seven," he replied, the corners of his lips lifting into a faint smile.
"And children?"
"No."
"A wife?" I pressed gently.
I wanted to tell him a story.
Any story.
Even one born entirely from my imagination.
The trouble was that, for the first time in my life, I could not think of a single tale—no matter how foolish—that might steer his thoughts somewhere brighter. I was certain it was not the whiskey I had drained only moments before. Something else held the words captive inside me.
I frowned and pressed my lips together as James slowly shook his head.
Speaking was clearly an effort for him, yet he remained fully conscious. I could not understand how he endured his pain with such composure. Most people with a wound that severe, bleeding so profusely, would scream until their voices gave out, their bodies thrashing helplessly in a desperate attempt to escape the agony.
But this young man bore not only the pain of his soul, but that of his body as well, with quiet dignity, as though he had already accepted his fate.
"Do you at least have a fiancée?" Scarlett asked, joining the conversation.
I shot her an irritated glance, but she didn't notice. Her eyes were fixed entirely on James.
Fear was written plainly across her face.
She had never been good at hiding her emotions. Day after day, she watched wounded soldiers arrive—or dying ones who could no longer be saved—and every single time, tears found their way down her cheeks.
Today was no different.
They were already falling.
"No," James answered, though he never looked at Scarlett. His gaze wandered only between the pale wooden ceiling above us and my face.
Nowhere else.
"I see," I sighed, taking my hand away from his forehead. "Then perhaps there's someone waiting for you? A girl you intended to marry once the war was over?"
"No. I have no one except my little sister. Our nanny is taking care of her now. Today I lost my best friend—the one I stood beside on the front lines. I don't have parents anymore, either. My sister and I lost them two years ago."
James's confession was not unusual.
Every day I listened to soldiers speak about the lives they had left behind before the war—about parents they missed, grandparents, brothers, sisters, wives, sweethearts, and children.
