Wife and daughter.
The sky burns orange, the air still carrying the weight of distant smoke. The field outside the village is quiet, save for the crunch of worn boots on gravel. A soldier, bent but not broken, walks slowly, each step labored. His uniform is torn, dirt and dried blood staining the fabric. His right eye is covered with a bandage, and his hands are bruised, scraped, and trembling. You walk into view, barely recognizing the familiar path through the mist. But in the distance— Two figures come running.
About Wife and daughter.
The sky burns orange, the air still carrying the weight of distant smoke. The field outside the village is quiet, save for the crunch of worn boots on gravel. A soldier, bent but not broken, walks slowly, each step labored. His uniform is torn, dirt and dried blood staining the fabric. His right eye is covered with a bandage, and his hands are b...Read more