- Grade 10
The boy sat concealed by a few jagged rocks in the dusty abode tucked against the spine of a tall mountain. Below him, the earth cracked from thirst and the weight of what had passed. Rifle clutched, he raised it to peer into the war-torn city below. Leo hadn’t fired in twelve days. Since then, the faces in his mind had multiplied. Ghosts that didn’t need names, only the weight of silence they left behind. Smoke curled upwards from the collapsed rooftops, threading the air with grief, smudging elegy across a sky that once dared to be blue.
Through the scope, he saw them: four enemy soldiers lying on rusted bed frames in a crumbling room. Their limbs were mangled, wrapped in bloodstained gauze, their flesh waxen and slick with sweat. One of them, unarmed, sat upright, wheezing into a shallow metal tray, spitting up blood in thick, sickening splashes.
Leo had been ordered to shoot at any sign of enemy movement.
But there really wasn’t any.
He told himself he still would and could. That he hadn't gone soft like the others.
But after all, what could these broken men possibly do?
Behind the men, he sensed a subtle shift in the air. Instinct took over. He held his breath, his hand stiffening on the trigger as he followed the movement through the scope.
A ribbon of light slipped through the fractured glass window, scattering into a thousand golden splinters that danced in the dust like fireflies. It found a young woman’s face gently, as if remembering it, soft and luminous beneath the soot, touched with the sheen of summer heat. Her hair, dark chestnut and cascading in tangled waves, clung to her temples and fell over her shoulders as she bent forward.
In her tray, she held a bundle of blood-soaked cloth, a pair of surgical scissors, and a few bullets freshly dug from flesh. He watched her in silence, stunned by how someone so delicate could exist in a place so brutally ruined. She looked like something from another world. Ethereal.
She moved between the cots with quiet precision, the soles of her shoes barely
whispering against the dusty floor. Reaching one soldier, she sighed and shook her head with the soft disappointment of a mother scolding a reckless child. Gently, she unraveled the filthy wrappings around his wounds, spreading an ointment with tender fingers. She hummed as she worked, a tune he couldn’t quite hear, but felt. It was as if it drifted into his chest, something soft, like a lullaby that lingered long after it ended.
He was entranced.
She turned and walked away, and only then did he straighten. His breath hitched as he realized what had just happened. She was a civilian. An innocent. No, he couldn’t shoot her. He wouldn’t. There were no orders either.
Perhaps he would not report such a small incident.
As long as she didn’t come back.
But she did.
Days passed, yet without sound he remained, buried in stone and shadow, watching her move unbearably out of reach. He told himself it was curiosity, like watching a bird in a cage, or a clock tick. But some part of him had started to wonder what her name might sound like in his mouth. Every day, at the same hour, she would return to the wounded men. Some days she wore large, round glasses perched on her nose. Other days, her hair was pulled into a loose bun, fastened with a stick. Some days she hummed as she worked. Other days she would perch on a dusty barstool and flip through a dog-eared book, her lips moving faintly as she read.
On quiet afternoons, when the soldiers slept, she would sweep the floor with a broom. She danced as she cleaned, twirling softly in the dust-filled room, the motes rising around her like golden spirits, spinning in time with her rhythm. There was elegance in her every movement, a kind of forgotten grace that didn’t belong in a war zone.
On other days, she would sit on the cracked tile floor, pressing her palms to her forehead, massaging her temples in slow circles. He watched her, helpless. He wished he could be there beside her, to offer comfort. But then, reality would slap him back into place. He’d shake the thought from his head and adjust his rifle.
Still, every day he stayed.
Leo had come to learn her mannerisms as if they were scripture. When she told a joke, and she often did, she would throw her head back and laugh openly, her whole face alight. When she was sad, she would pretend nothing was wrong, smiling through the ache, but her eyes would betray her. When she was angry, she scolded the men like a mother would a mischievous son, wagging her finger and crossing her arms. And when she was disappointed… she would go quiet. Her mouth drawn tight, her gaze heavy, like the silence itself could cut. Another few days passed. He was still there, still watching.
Then, the radio at his side crackled.
Static buzzed violently in his ear, and he snapped the dial into focus.
"Be advised," came the voice. "Any enemy movement, engage. Do not hesitate."
His blood ran cold.
Leo looked up through the scope, his fingers trembling.
She was there.
The soldiers too, but it was her he saw. She was kneeling beside a man, brushing sweat from his brow. Her lips moved, murmuring something soft.
He couldn't do it.
How could he bring death to this? To her?
He stared through the scope, trying to memorize every curve of her face, every freckle, every strand of her loose hair. Wondering what he had missed. What story lived in her past. Who she used to be before all this.
She looked up.
Straight through the blown-out window. Straight through the scope.
Their eyes met.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look afraid.
She smiled.
Startled, he gasped and fell backwards, heart pounding. The radio buzzed again, louder
now, more urgent.
“We’ve got a confirmed sniper nest in that building. Airstrike in 2 minutes. Pull out.”
No.
No. No. This couldn’t be happening.
He snatched the radio. “Civilians! There's a woman, a medic, she's unarmed! I repeat,
she’s unarmed!”
No reply.
He scrambled from his hideout, stumbling down the rocks, slicing his legs on thorns and debris. His breath was ragged, his boots slipping in the dry dust. He sprinted toward the building, arms pumping, throat screaming.
But it was too late.
The missile came like thunder.
A flash. A roar. The ground shook as fire swallowed the building whole.
He dropped to his knees, screaming in silence. His rifle clattered to the ground beside him. Smoke billowed from the crater where she once stood. The world was ash and ruin once again.
Dust cleared slowly.
He raised the scope again with shaking hands, barely able to see through the tears.
And there, through the gray, fluttering in the warm wind like a whisper, was her white
scarf.
Hung carefully on a bent nail.
She had left it for him.
She knew he was watching.
And she gave him something to remember her by.
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