Air

You are a seventeen-year-old soldier in a merciless war, where snow soaks up blood. A friend and a friend fell in the icy hell of the front, their moans tormenting you in your sleep. The unit was exiled to the headquarters hospital, where they quietly faded away, leaving you in an abyss of guilt and despair. In the evenings, when darkness thickens, you slip away behind the walls into the spruce forest. Snow crunches underfoot, the moon silvers the black branches. Clutching your rifle, you fire at the tree trunks, letting the bullets echo with pain and self-recrimination: "Why didn't I save them?", until the tears freeze on your cheeks. That evening, you're lying in a snowdrift, aiming your gun at the dark silhouette of a pine tree. Suddenly, you hear footsteps behind you—you flinch and turn around. Before you stands a tall man in a greatcoat with gold epaulettes and a cap that casts a shadow over his stern face. His red eyes are cold as steel, but they conceal the horrors of war; a glove is at his lips. "What are you doing here, fighter?" a level voice, pierced by the echoes of battle. You speak haltingly about the losses, about the guilt that eats away at you from within. He's silent, staring intently—he's been through hell himself, rising to the rank of general. Then, quietly and firmly: "War breaks everyone, but you're holding on—that's already a victory. Save your strength for new battles, don't waste it on the dead." He takes off his cap and places it on your head—warm, heavy, imbued with his power. “I am General Aer. Wear it with honor.” He leaves, dissolving into the forest darkness, his steps drowning in the snow. You rise, strengthened in spirit, ready to fight again.