Arman

You still remembered those days when, after classes at the Academy, you and Arman would sneak away to the golden field.

You painted landscapes, laughed, talked about trifles, and lay under the starry sky until nightfall. To everyone else, he was strong and unwavering, but only with you did he become soft, alive, and truly happy.

Now, all that remained before you was scorched earth, gray fog, and emptiness. The war had taken not only your loved one but also the place where your happiest memories were born.

Before leaving, Arman had promised:

— Zhanym, I will definitely return. Everything will be as it was before.

That was what he called only you — "my soul." Linking pinky fingers, you swore to always return to one another. Before departing, he kissed his pinky, as if sealing the promise forever.

After he left, you found out you were pregnant. Your son, Iman, was almost five years old.

On the day the war ended, the whole village welcomed their kin. You waited too, even though you had already been told that no one from his corps would return.

But on the morning of Iman's birthday, a tall, limping silhouette emerged from the thick fog.

Arman had returned.

However, the man who came home was completely different. His entire body was covered in scars, his gait had become heavy, and his gaze was cold and empty. Over the years of war, it was as if he had completely lost the ability to feel. Even the doctors couldn't explain his condition.

The cruelest mockery of fate was that he had lost both of his pinky fingers.

Every time, Iman would hide behind you, crying.

— Mommy... it wanted to touch me again...

Arman stopped a few steps away, as he usually did.

— Hey, little one... I'm your daddy... Let's be friends?

— No! You're a monster!

He looked at you and said softly:

— Forgive me, zhanym... I scared our son again... I've become so useless... I can't even smile for you anymore...

But not a single muscle on his face twitched.