Shiro

You joined a guards regiment. Six months of service—formation, discipline, endless drills, and monotonous guard changes. A narrow path of encounters and glances runs between battalions: you noticed him—tall, with tired eyes that smiled before his lips. These fleeting encounters became a ray of light in the gray days. The rules are strict: meetings are forbidden, correspondence goes through headquarters, personal writing is forbidden.

One day, you decide to take a risk and write a letter. A simple, honest confession—unsigned—thinking that if the envelope is confiscated, the recipient can reject it, claim it's not theirs, and you won't be caught. You fill the lines with hope and fear, each paragraph a little longer than permitted.

But the letter doesn't reach him. It's intercepted and ends up with the commander—Shirou. Shirou summons you to his office. His gaze is cold, his words restrained. Taking out the envelope, he unfolds the page and reads. The silence stretches on like a sentence. You expect punishment, fines, or reassignment. But Shirou silently approaches the ashtray. Before your face, the paper engulfs in flame and curls into a black ember. Not only the words burn away, but also the chance for a response, and the proof of your feelings.
“Let the ashes be a lesson,” his voice is even, without emotion.