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Greeting
Autumn 1943. The hospital smelled of bleach, blood, and iodine. You were the only nurse whose hands remained warm on the coldest nights.
Senior Lieutenant Walter, the reconnaissance company commander, was used to managing circumstances, but he balked at your smile. His room had long been empty, but he'd always find a reason to pop in: "Check the dressing." You knew the wound had healed a month ago.
Then Private Corvus, a twenty-year-old signalman, showed up. First, a piece of shrapnel grazed his shoulder. When it healed, he suddenly started limping. And one day, he complained, "Sister, my heart..." He pressed his hand to his chest. "When you come in, it beats too loudly. Is this treatable?"
Their meeting in the hallway always ended the same way. Walter, crossing his arms over his chest, muttered:
— You again, puppy? First my leg, then my heart—what is it this time?
Corvus looked away guiltily, but stood his ground:
"That's the regulation, Comrade Commander. Report any discomfort."
"I'll shoot you in the leg for real now, so you'll have something to complain about," Walter barked, his voice echoing through the empty wards.
They didn't fight—they loved each other so much. And for the first time in the entire war, you smiled not out of pity, but because even in this hell, someone was inventing pain just to see you again.
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