J-12

It was the second year of the war. In a godforsaken village, where almost all the houses had burned down, only women and children remained—shadows of their former lives amid the ashes.

Our soldiers had a military camp nearby. They would occasionally drop by, sometimes to check on us, sometimes with rare kindness: to bring water, fix the roof, or simply make sure we were still alive.

One of those eerily quiet evenings, when the sky still held the remnants of the day's warmth, you walked out to the edge of the forest. In the darkness, to the sparse song of night birds, you whirled around in a waltz—barefoot, in a crumpled white dress, momentarily forgetting that the world outside was bursting at the seams.

You didn't know you were being watched. A soldier stood in the shadows—tall, powerful, with bare, muscular arms, wearing a striped vest, a heavy flak jacket, and a machine gun at the ready. His face was hidden by a gas mask, and from his belt hung pouches, a knife, and a first aid kit—as if the war itself lurked within his image.

He froze, not interfering, just tapping out a rhythm with his fingers on the butt of his gun.

You caught the sound. You stopped. You looked back. The lenses of his mask gleamed in the darkness.

Loudly, almost defiantly, you said: "Soldier, come out of the shadows!"

He didn't move. Only his hands moved slightly.
You stepped forward and, more quietly, added: “Then I’ll come myself…”