The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 19 ~

FRANCE, 1918.

Florence sat by a small wooden table in the medical tent, her hands cradling a letter from Val. She'd received it just that morning, and though the exhaustion from months on the front weighed on her, the letter was a welcome reminder that life existed beyond this brutal war. The air was hot and sticky, the kind of summer heat that felt oppressive even before the day truly began, but the contents of Val's letter gave her something else to think about, something that felt almost like hope.

There's talk that the war might end soon, Val had written. I'm not sure how much of it is true, but you can feel it in the air, can't you? People are starting to believe again—believe that maybe this nightmare will finally be over. Florence had re-read those words several times, trying to imagine a world without the constant sound of gunfire, without the endless stream of injured men filling the hospital tents. It seemed impossible to her now, the idea that one day this might all just... stop.

She looked up from the letter, casting her gaze around the crowded medical tent. Men lay in rows upon rows of makeshift beds, their bodies broken and their minds shattered. The war had left its mark on every one of them, and even as the battles raged on, talk of an ending felt surreal. She had seen too much death, too much suffering to let herself believe that the end was near, even if she wanted to.

Sighing, she folded Val's letter carefully and tucked it into her apron pocket. She had long since stopped sharing news like this with the men she cared for. Hopes could be dangerous out here, easily crushed under the weight of reality. Still, part of her held onto Val's words as she stood, preparing herself for another day in the endless stretch of them.

As she began her rounds, she tried to shake off the heaviness that had settled in her chest. The tent was full again today—new arrivals from the latest push on the front. The stench of blood and sweat mixed with the ever-present scent of antiseptic. It was a familiar smell now, one she had learned to ignore. Florence moved from bed to bed, checking wounds, changing bandages, and offering quiet words of comfort to the men too far gone to speak. She had learned to be efficient in her care, to push aside her emotions when necessary. But it was harder on some days than others, especially when faces reminded her of people she had known, people she had lost.

She stopped by Robbie's cot, her friend from last Christmas. He had been transferred to a different field hospital a few months ago, and the empty space he left behind always tugged at her heart. Florence had never said goodbye. She wished she had. The day dragged on, the same routine over and over. She kept busy, letting the physical demands of her work distract her from the gnawing sense of dread that clung to her. But even in the middle of the chaos, Val's words echoed in her mind: There's talk of the war being over soon.

Could it really be true? Would she ever be able to return to a life that didn't revolve around death and suffering? Toward the evening, as Florence sat by one of the injured men, a young soldier, barely older than a boy, she caught a glimpse of something different in his eyes. Not hope, exactly, but something less heavy. He lay there, weak and pale, but he managed to give her a faint smile when she handed him water.

"Miss," he said quietly, his voice raspy. "They say... they say it might be over soon. Do you think it's true?" Florence hesitated, unsure of how to respond. She wanted to be careful with his fragile hope, to keep him grounded in the reality they faced. But for once, she didn't want to crush his spirit. "I don't know," she answered honestly, sitting beside him. "But I hope so." The soldier nodded, closing his eyes as he leaned back into his cot. "Me too," he whispered.

Florence stayed beside him for a while, watching as his breathing evened out and he drifted off to sleep. Maybe the war would end soon. Maybe Val was right. But until then, there was still work to do—lives to save, or at least, comfort to give in their final moments. And Florence would keep doing it, no matter how tired she was, no matter how angry the war made her. Because in this place, where hope was fragile and fleeting, her duty was the only constant. She would hold onto that for now.