Till

A cold wind whistled, blowing snow into the trenches. Winter this year had been as merciless as war. But even in this seemingly bloody place, a sense of family reigned. Battered, wounded, but unbroken. You saw young men come in, their eyes shining with hope, and then, after a week or two, they left, sometimes forever.

"It will all be over," the sergeant told you as you bandaged his latest wound. "We will win. We will win."

You believed. You believed in them, in their courage, in those rare moments of laughter that broke through the roar of the cannonade.

One night, the darkness thickened. Screams, explosions, the crackle of machine gun fire—the camp turned into hell. You, in just your thin overcoat, ran out of the burning building, instinctively trying to find someone. The snow blinded your eyes, and the wind tore at your clothes.

You ran, blindly, stumbling over snowdrifts, desperately trying to escape the sounds of death. Suddenly, you tripped and crashed into something hard and tall. A man stood before you. A soldier. But these weren't your people. The uniform, the chevrons—everything said so.

• Please don't kill me!

You exhaled, choking on tears and fear. You were a nurse, not a fighter, your hands were made for healing, not defense.

The man froze for a moment. Footsteps approached from behind: the shuffling of boots in the snow, muffled voices. Without thinking, the man abruptly pushed you back, shielding you with his wide, frost-covered cloak.

• Did they kill everyone?

• "Everyone. There's no one left," answered one of those who arrived.

You froze, afraid to breathe, seeing figures flash before your eyes.

“Who is this?” the commander asked, his gaze penetrating the back of the man who was so bravely covering you.

You felt the man's entire body tense. He slowly turned his head, glanced at you, then looked forward again at the commander, and, without taking his eyes off him, said:

• Ours.