Dr. Kavya Malhotra, First‑Person POV

The morning after the ceasefire attack, the air in Leh tasted of ash and sorrow. Dawn arrived thin and hesitant, pale light bleeding through gray clouds. I woke with his arms still around me, heart pounding at the empty ache in the cot beside mine. The quiet was deafening—no gunshot crack, no whimpering survivors, just the meager hum of the heater and my own ragged breath.

I slipped from the cot and found his uniform neatly folded on the chair. The fabric still smelled faintly of pine forests and gunmetal, of him. My fingers traced the sleeve cuff, lingering on the bloodstain we'd washed away. He'd vanished into the night to treat the wounded, and I'd followed until orders sent me back to the medical tent. By the time I returned, he was gone.

Hours dragged past in a blur of tea rounds and intake forms. I tutored a fresh‑faced lieutenant in grounding exercises, but my mind was a battlefield of memory. I kept glancing at the tent flap as if expecting him to stumble in, scratched and delirious, but each time I found only the arctic wind whipping through the canvas.

By midday, a note arrived: a single sheet of creased paper, edged with frost dust. In his precise block letters:

Kavya,
I'm okay. There were too many wounded. I stayed on. I'll find you as soon as I'm clear to leave.
—DK

I squeezed the paper until my knuckles ached. His words were lifeline and confession both. He could have lied—pulled me into safety—but he stayed. He had to save lives, even at the cost of our fragile dawn together.

That evening, I found him at the edge of the clinic boundary, silhouetted against fading light. He looked smaller than I remembered—scarfless, unguarded, eyes hollow with exhaustion.

"DK," I whispered, stepping toward him. My footing crunched on gravel.

He turned, surprise flickering in his gaze. "Kavya... I—"

I held up his note. "Why didn't you bring me with you?"

He exhaled, shoulders sagging. "You would have been a liability. They needed me here."

I swallowed the resentment that rose like bile. "And you left me here to worry."

His hand closed around mine. "I'm sorry." His thumb brushed the paper. "I promised."

I opened my mouth to scold, but the ache in his voice softened my anger. "I know."

We stood in the raw twilight, two wounded souls led by duty more than desire. Behind us, the clinic lanterns glowed like distant stars.

Nightfall—The First Letter

That night, sleep was a stranger. I lay on the hard cot, listening to distant moans and the scrape of stretchers. At two‑thirty a.m., I gave up and assembled his note, pressing it between pages of my journal. I transposed his words in my neatest script, adding my own reply in the margins:

I understand. But my heart breaks every time I imagine you out there alone. Please come back soon.
—K

Tomorrow I'd enforce safe delivery through the medevac runners. But tonight, I curled around his note, reading it until its fibers wore thin.

Dawn Again—Letters from the Front

Over the next week, his letters trickled in: crisp, urgent, each one a glimpse into a world I could barely fathom. He described frost‑nipped fingers scribbling diagnoses by torchlight; the clang of artillery echoing across glaciers; the grateful smiles of the injured. And always, the refrain:

I'll find you soon.

On the fifth dawn, he wrote:

Got clearance to move out at dawn tomorrow. There's a forward post in Kupwara. I'll send word when I reach Leh. Until then, hold my coin for luck.

My breath caught. Kupwara was closer to his old battalion's sector—hotter, more dangerous. But he pressed on, unflinching.

I wrapped his coin in tissue paper and pinned it above my desk, a talisman against fear. I devoted my sessions to letters from soldiers at the front—teaching them to write home, to reclaim their voices. But each line I penned in my own stationeries echoed with longing.

The Day Before Goodbye

The day he left, Leh was bathed in unseasonable sunshine. Snowmelt trickled through the tent seams, and the wind whispered of spring. I arrived at dawn, heart thudding. He stood by the supply trucks, gear slung over his shoulder, uniform spotless again.

"Don't," I said, voice tight. "Not another word of promise."

He cocked his head. "I only promise to return."

My lips trembled. "Promise me you won't forget why you came back in the first place."

He stepped forward, cupping my face in his gloved hands. "I came back for you," he said. "And I'll keep coming back."

I closed my eyes, leaning into the warmth of his palms. "Then go," I whispered.

He kissed my forehead—soft, fleeting, as though entrusting his heart to me. Then he turned, loading himself onto the crate‑back of the troop carrier. The engine roared, and the wheels crunched over gravel.

He looked back once, lifting a hand in farewell. I stood at the tent flap, watching the carrier shrink into the distance—my protector bound for another crucible.

Weeks of Silence

His letters slowed as he moved deeper into the front. I shifted my clinic hours to later in the day, following the medevac schedule, but there were nights when no word came. My mind filled the gaps with dread: I imagined him trapped beneath ice, or worse. I spent long hours by the coin on my desk, fingertips tracing its cold surface.

Then, after nine harrowing days, a letter arrived:

Kavya,
I'm safe. The line was quiet. I started a support group here—wounded soldiers, drivers, medics. They talk less, hold more. I think of you every night.
—DK

Relief washed over me, but it was laced with sorrow: he was moving on, building healing in places I couldn't reach.

A Message in Frost

On the third week, I received a telegram: urgent clearance for leave. He was due back in Leh in seventy‑two hours. My heart soared—and then froze. Seventy‑two hours to prepare for our reunion. Seventy‑two hours to brace for the girl who'd grown in his absence and the man who'd changed too.

I spent those days torn between preparation and panic. I sewed a khadi dress for our first evening together; I re‑learned his favorite tea recipe. But I also reread every letter, memorizing lines of longing and promise. I replayed his voice in my mind: the way it trembled with confession, the steadiness that followed.

The Eve of Return

The night before his arrival, Leh was calm—no drills, no medevac bustle, only the hush of scattered snowfall. I lit candles outside the tent, guiding me through the darkness. I wrapped the silver coin in my palm, feeling its ridges press through paper. I spoke into the cold:

"Come home."

I lay awake, cloak pulled around me, listening for the distant hum of engines. When sleep finally came, it was a dream of frost‑white landscapes and a voice calling my name across the wind.

Arrival at Dawn

The courier came at first light, breath billowing in his wake. I took the envelope—snow‑damp, blood‑warmed—and tore it open with shaking fingers:

At checkpoint seven, thirty minutes before sunrise. I'll find you by the cherry blossoms.
—DK

Cherry blossoms in bloom amid the ice. Familiar. Impossible.

I bundled into my coat, took the coin, and set off through the early mist. Each crunch of my boots echoed too loud. My heart pounded in my ears.

Then I saw him: at the grove of flowering cherries, pink petals drifting like confetti. He stood waiting—scarf wrapped around his neck, eyes soft with longing.

We ran to each other, meeting halfway. He caught me in his arms, the world spinning around our bodies. His lips found mine—gentle, urgent, covering the miles of fear and waiting that separated us. I clung to him, as though he were the only solid thing in a slipping world.

When we broke apart, he brushed petals from my hair. "I kept my promise," he said softly.

I pressed his coin back into his hand. "And I kept mine." I wrapped my arms around his neck. "Stay with me."

He lowered his forehead to mine, breathing my name. "Always."

Under the Cherry Blossoms

We remained beneath the blossoms until the sun rose fully. The petals caught the light like embers, and in that delicate glow, we found each other again—two hearts mending in a world that demanded sacrifice, yet still allowed moments of grace.

As dawn unfurled across the valley, we made a new promise: to love with abandon, even when the ice pressed close, even when the world between us was storm and silence. For beneath the frost, life—and hope—could still bloom.