Dr. Kavya Malhotra, First‑Person POV

I arrive at the forward operating base before sunrise, the sky bruised violet above the icy plateau. The wind's off‑axis howl bites through my layers, turning breath into fire in my lungs. Captain Khanna's new assignment has brought him here—an advanced trauma support unit tucked halfway up the glacier road—yet I doubt he'd asked for the cold. He didn't ask for any of this.

I find him at the edge of the medical tent, crouched over a cluster of wounded recruits. He moves with practiced precision—cutting gauze, setting IVs, murmuring quiet reassurances to boys not much older than his fallen friend, Sepoy Arjun Mehta. Each life he saves must feel both triumph and torment, I imagine.

He looks up when I approach, the tension in his shoulders easing into a tired relief. "Kavya," he says softly, wiping blood from his gloves. "You shouldn't be here."

I wrap my scarf tighter, smile. "I told you I'd follow."

He helps a young soldier to his feet, then crosses to me. "You know the risk—this isn't a workshop or a clinic. This is the front lines."

I rest a hand on his arm. "I need to see where you heal—so I understand how deep your wounds run."

He nods, eyes shadowed. "All right."

The Barricade

We step onto the snow‑packed road, orange lanterns flickering along the barricade. Beyond, the mountains stand like silent sentinels. He pauses at a battered sign: Sector 7: Line of Control. His jaw tightens.

"Show me," I whisper.

He exhales, gloved hand tracing the sign's weathered edge. "This is where it happened."

I follow him through the barbed wire into a clearing: jagged rocks, a smattering of spent shells, and a frozen bloodstain half‑buried in snow. My breath catches.

He kneels, brushing snow aside. "I led a medevac convoy here two years ago. Under cover of darkness, a villager ran toward us—ragged, pleading for help. They'd been shelled." His voice wavers. "We treated thirty casualties before dawn."

He stands, shoulders squared against memory. "Then we lost comms. I went to check the relay post."

The wind picks up, tossing his scarf into my face. He flinches. "I found Arjun there. He'd dragged himself from the wreckage and collapsed beside the antenna. He said, 'DK, they need you back there.' He sounded calm."

I swallow. "And you left him?"

He closes his eyes. "I went back to save others. That's my job—triage, prioritize. But that meant leaving him alone."

A tear freezes on my cheek. He opens his eyes, grief raw. "I heard the blast from the convoy. I ran back, only to see him thrown clear by shrapnel. Half my squad was around him, but I didn't get there in time."

He looks at me, voice breaking. "I held his hand as he took his last breath."

Silence hangs. I take his hand in mine—glove meeting bare skin.

Flashback: The Night of Ambush

The night air smelled of cordite and pine. Lanterns swung in the wind, casting shadows that danced like specters. I was fourteen then, fresh out of training, on my first real operation. DK—then Lieutenant Khanna—was our surgeon. Calm as a monk, calm as a killer. He moved among the wounded with surgeon's hands and soldier's heart.

I remember hearing the first echo of the mortar—deep, thunderous. We ducked behind crates, but DK sprinted into the open, unaffected by fear. He reached the wounded before the second blast. He fought to control panic in his own chest while applying tourniquets, whispering, "Stay with me, soldier."

When the third round hit, he was caught in the blast. I saw him thrown back, helmet cracking. His eyes—still fixed on the dying—went wide. Then black.

I ran to him. Irrelevant, useless. I found him bleeding, unconscious. He came to as I knelt by him. "Get back to work," he rasped. "We're needed." His voice, still mine—a touchstone.

He climbed to his feet, staggered, but returned to the line. I carried him off only after every casualty had a pulse.

That night, he taught me what it meant to fight guilt with action, to save lives even when your own trembled.

Present: The Weight of Duty

I blink away fresh tears. DK stands, brushing his gloves on his pant leg. "I shouldn't have come back for them all," he says. "I should have stopped the convoy to rescue Arjun first. Then maybe he'd still be alive."

I take both his hands. "You did what any of us would: you chose the greatest good for the greatest number. Arjun knew that. He trusted you."

He looks to the bloodstain. "Sometimes, trust feels like an accusation."

I cup his face. "Trust is a gift. You honored it by coming back here—to this snow, this road, to me."

He closes his eyes, leaning into my touch.

Healing Rites

That night, back in the tent, I prepare a small ceremony: a bowl of Siachen's ice‑melt water, a candle, and the wooden box containing his former burdens. I place the bowl on the table, fill it with water that once ran down this road, through this clearing.

DK watches, uncertain. I dip my fingers into the water, then trace his scars—frostbite on his cheek, the stitch line on his shoulder. "These wounds mark your survival," I murmur. "Let this water remind you that healing flows through time."

I light the candle, and we sit in silence, the flame flickering against canvas walls. I guide him to place the wooden box—once full of guilt's ashes—into the water. He lowers it slowly; the echoing clink sounds like release.

We hold hands as the box drifts, bobbing gently.

Dawn

The next morning, DK departs for base camp. He strides through the barricade, shouldering his pack. I stand in the snow, watching until he's a dark silhouette against the mountains.

I whisper to the wind, "May you carry him safely home."

Then, turning back to the tent, I tuck away the silver coin, the shell‑splinter, and the memory of his confession—knowing that fragments of the past will always remain, but that together, we've forged a path toward healing beneath the surface.