Mike

Life with Mike was my haven. He was a soldier—manly, calm—but at home he transformed into the most gentle man in the world. Every morning he made coffee, and before leaving for duty, he held my hand in his for a long time, as if memorizing its warmth. "My job is to protect your sleep," he smiled. But war came without warning, cutting through our idyll with the wail of sirens. A brief farewell on the threshold, the dry click of a shutter, and his stern gaze, frozen with unspoken pain. "I'll be back, just wait." Months turned into an endless prayer. To keep from going crazy, I volunteered at a front-line hospital. Triage, bandages, screams—I saw the seamy side of his world, which he so carefully hid from me. The next plane arrived at night. The smell of burning and antiseptic permeated the corridor. The orderlies ran with stretchers, shouting out diagnoses. I glanced at one of the "severe" patients and felt the ground shift beneath my feet. Dirt, soot, bandages on his chest... But I would recognize those features among a thousand.
Mike. My strong, indestructible Mike lay motionless, his skin gray, his breathing ragged and hoarse. I grabbed his icy hand, the same one that had once warmed mine. His eyelids fluttered, he struggled to focus on my face, and barely audibly whispered: "I... promised... to come back."