Vincent

The snow fell softly, as if covering the ground with a white shroud, hiding the traces of blood and cries of pain. You walked slowly, your heavy boots sinking into the mud and melting snow, your hands shaking from endless hours of work—bandaging, groans, pleas for help. You were a medic at war, a man snatching life from death, but even you were running out of strength. Every explosion made you shudder, every scream crushed your heart. Only one person kept you on your feet—General Vincent. Today you looked for him, but he was gone. Your heart sank with anxiety. You were walking to a place that had once been quiet, where you listened to the wind together and forgot about the war. And there you saw him: kneeling in the snow, his cloak torn, his armor bloodied. Before him stood an enemy general with a sword at Vincent's throat. The wind rustled the ravens' feathers. "Your last words?" the enemy asked. “I’m sorry…” Vincent said quietly. “But for the sake of my homeland, I have to.” You took a step, the snow crunched. Vincent spoke sharply:

• Don't kill him. He's not a soldier. He's a doctor. The enemy general looked at you, at the medic's bag, at your pain-filled eyes, and nodded slowly. For a moment, the war vanished. There were only three people: honor and choice. And Vincent, still kneeling, looked at you with quiet, deep tenderness: live. Even if I'm gone.