Shadows Of The Stumps

Chapter - 84

The academy grounds were silent, save for the soft rustle of the flags in the breeze. The ceremonial space was starkly beautiful, adorned with the photographs of Arya and Ayan in their uniforms, framed by wreaths of marigolds. The scent of incense lingered, mingling with the earthy smell of the evening. Cadets and officers stood at attention, their grief masked by the rigid discipline drilled into them.

Meera stood at the forefront, clad in her ceremonial uniform. Her posture was impeccable, her face a mask of steely resolve. But her mind was anything but calm. Every sight, every sound seemed to bring back a memory.

Aru Di, her soul sister, teasing her about her messy braid during their early days at the academy. The way they'd share a single cup of chai on cold mornings, talking about everything and nothing. Ayan, her love, who'd always find a way to steal a moment with her despite the chaos around them—his warm hand on hers, his whispered promises of "forever" that now felt like cruel echoes. She could almost hear him humming that off-key tune he'd sung to her on late nights, his voice cracking but still somehow perfect.

Her chest felt like it was caving in, but she held her posture, her jaw tightening to keep the emotions at bay. She couldn't afford to fall apart now, not in front of everyone. A single tear slid down her cheek, betraying her control. She didn't wipe it away, letting it trail silently as her gaze remained fixed on their photographs.

Beside her, the Colonel stood tall, his uniform pristine, every medal on his chest gleaming in the dim light. His face was impassive, carved from stone, but his heart was a battlefield. Ayan and Arya had been more than officers under his command—they had been his children. The academy was oblivious to his family, the soldiers were his own children, the one he had fed, he had raised and made them the officers that they became.

His thoughts raced, clashing against his own restraint. Ayan's endless energy, his ability to rally the team even in the bleakest moments. Arya's sharp wit, her unyielding dedication, and the way she looked after Meera like an elder sister. They had been his pride and his strength. And now they were gone.

He glanced at Meera from the corner of his eye, his heart tightening. She stood unshaken, her resolve unyielding, but he could see the fractures beneath her exterior. She was broken in ways she wouldn't allow herself to acknowledge, and her silence terrified him. It was as if she was bracing herself for more loss, expecting it to come.

And then there was his own son, lying unconscious in the hospital. The question he had asked himself too many times echoed once more: How much more of my family will I lose to this uniform?

But amid the grief, there was pride. He was proud of Ayan and Arya, of what they had achieved and the lives they had saved. They had lived with honor, and they had fallen with honor. Yet the price of that honor seemed insurmountable now.

His eyes locked on Meera again, unwillingly drawn to her stillness. Her strength amazed him, but it also terrified him. How far would she push herself before she broke entirely?

The ceremony ended without fanfare. No speeches, no dramatics—just the stark, haunting finality of the last salute. The silence afterward was deafening, and yet neither Meera nor the Colonel moved for a long moment.

When they finally turned to leave, Meera's steps were steady, but the Colonel could see the weight she carried in her every movement. He followed her, his gaze heavy with both sorrow and fear. They were soldiers, but they were also human. And tonight, humanity felt like the greater loss.

The corner of the academy's hall was dimly lit, casting long shadows over the Colonel and Meera as they sat on the cold bench. The air was heavy, the silence between them punctuated only by the faint hum of the lights. A bag sat beside the Colonel, worn but meticulously packed. He reached into it, pulled out a photograph, and handed it to Meera.

"This is how we found them," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Meera's trembling hands took the photograph. There they were—Arya and Ayan, lying motionless in the rubble, their uniforms dusty and torn. Ayan's arm was still draped protectively over Arya, shielding her even in death. A faint smile flickered through Meera's tears as she traced their faces with her fingers.

"He'd never let her get hurt," she murmured, her voice breaking. "She was one of the toughest, but for Ayan, she was always the baby sister."

The Colonel nodded, his expression grave yet tender. "Yes, she was. And he'd do it all over again if it meant keeping her safe."

Meera swallowed hard, fighting the lump in her throat. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice almost inaudible.

The Colonel sighed deeply, leaning back against the bench. "Am I? I don't know, Meera. I've lost count of the times I've lost my family to some mission, some duty. And this time... I don't even know if we could have saved them." His voice cracked, and he quickly steadied himself. "Arjun's in the hospital... and you know as well as I do, once he wakes up, he's going to be the most devastated of all."

Meera choked on her words, nodding slowly. "I know," she whispered, her voice thick with grief. "It's terrifying to think about how he'll react."

The silence between them grew heavier, stretching like an unspoken truth neither of them could bear to face. Meera reached into the bag and pulled out Ayan's uniform, still crisply pressed, untouched by the chaos. She cradled it in her lap, her fingers running over the fabric as though it could somehow bring him back.

The Colonel watched her closely. "You haven't told anyone at home, have you?"

Meera shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the uniform. "No."

The Colonel hesitated before asking again, his voice gentler this time. "Are you going to Australia?"

Meera stammered, her fingers trembling as they traced the insignia on Ayan's uniform. "Yes."

The Colonel sighed heavily, leaning forward. "He loved you, Meera. He wouldn't want you to break."

Her tears finally fell, slow and silent, as she whispered, "He loved me, Colonel. And he wouldn't want me to give up either."

The Colonel's resolve faltered for a moment, and he reached out, pulling Meera closer. She didn't resist, leaning into his embrace as the weight of her grief spilled over.

"Why us?" she asked, her voice trembling, broken. "Why always us?"

The Colonel held her tighter, his own tears threatening to escape. "I don't know, Noor," he whispered. "I've been asking the same question my whole life."

And in the quiet corner of the academy, surrounded by shadows and loss, they grieved together—not as soldiers, but as a father and daughter bound by the same unrelenting pain.