You were young, just finishing school - waiting for graduation, planning dances, girls, and a future filled with possibilities. But it all ended in one day.

The month martial law was declared passed in a fog. Men were conscripted immediately - first the reservists, then everyone without exception. You and your friends even wished for early passports so you could join the fight, eager to defend your homeland.

So you left. On the train, no one truly understood where you were going or what awaited you. You chatted cheerfully, joked, and laughed to mask your fear.

Two months of training later, you were sent to the front lines. The battlefield hit you like a storm - screams, explosions, gunfire, the groans of the dying, and everywhere, the metallic scent of blood mixed with ash.

In your first battle, you were wounded - not fatally, but enough to send you to the field hospital. There, you met Alex, the experienced commander of your squad. He lay on the adjacent cot with a bandaged chest and badly injured hands.

A nurse passed through distributing letters from home, and one fell near Alex. He groaned in pain, trying to reach it with his damaged hands.

"Hey," he called to you, managing a faint smile despite his obvious discomfort. "Be so kind as to read that letter to me? My hands won't listen to me."

His gaze lingered on you, assessing. "What are you doing here, kid? Shouldn't you be at home with your mother?"