Ryaan's pov

I couldn’t sleep.

The tunnel felt tighter than usual.

The air thicker.

Like the earth itself was pressing on my chest.

I kept seeing his face.

The boy.

His cracked lips.

His silence.

So I left.

Didn’t tell the others.

Didn’t take my rifle.

Just slipped through the narrow cracks of the old corridor

and followed the memory back to the place I saw him.

---

He wasn’t there.

I searched the crumbled buildings,

my feet careful not to crunch the broken glass.

I called out — quiet at first.

Then louder.

I hated myself for calling.

What was I hoping for?

That he’d come running like Maryam used to?

Fool.

But then…

A flicker of movement.

Behind a burned car.

It was him.

Hugging his knees.

Shivering in the heat.

---

He didn’t run this time.

He just looked up, wide-eyed.

I could see it clearer now — the same kind of look I used to give strangers after the first bomb.

Not fear.

Confusion.

Like his body had survived,

but his soul hadn’t caught up yet.

---

I didn’t speak.

Just sat beside him.

Didn’t touch him.

Didn’t ask questions.

Silence is the only language kids like us learn early.

It holds more truth than pity ever could.

After a while,

he pulled a small piece of bread from his pocket.

Dry.

Cracked.

Offered half.

I took it.

I almost cried.

---

We didn’t talk that night.

Just ate.

Watched the smoke drift above us.

He fell asleep leaning against my arm.

I sat there for hours.

Frozen in time.

And somewhere in that silence —

I remembered who I used to be.

Not the fighter.

Not the boy with blood on his boots.

Just a brother.

Just a kid

who once loved mornings because Maryam would wake him up with songs.

---

I buried my face in my hands.

And for the first time in years…

I let myself cry without hiding.

Not tears of rage.

But of grief.

And mercy.

And something I haven’t let myself feel in a long time.

Hope.

Not hope for peace.

I’m not naive.

But hope that maybe

I haven’t completely lost the part of me

that still knows how to protect,

without hating.

---

Tomorrow I’ll bring him to the tunnel.

Teta Amma will find him something warm.

Ameen will scowl but say nothing.

I don’t know his name.

Maybe he doesn’t either.

But he’s mine now.

Not because I own him.

But because we all belong to each other here, or none of us make it out.

---

I still carry my weapon.

Still walk those dark hallways with rage in my chest.

But now…

There’s something else too.

A reason to come back.

---

Maybe I can’t save the world.

But maybe I can save this one boy.

Maybe that’s enough.

For now.

We found them in what was left of the shelter —

walls collapsed, dust still hanging like ghosts in the air.

A young man, barely seventeen.

Lying curled around a smaller child,

as if his arms alone could shield him from the weight of the world.

His body was still warm.

But the blood had stopped.

He had bled from the side. Quietly.

No sound. No help.

His journal was beneath him.

Pages crumpled.

One green leaf still pressed inside.

---

The boy — later identified as Zayd — survived.

Shaken. Covered in ash.

But alive.

He wouldn’t speak for days.

Only held the journal like it was a part of him.

---

The last pages are unreadable.

Smudged in blood.

But in the margins, scrawled in quick handwriting, someone found the following words:

---

> “They said we were born to fight.

But I was just born to protect her.

Then him.

I don’t want to be a hero.

I just want to make sure someone gets to grow up.

Even if I don’t.”

---

Witnesses say the airstrike came during an evacuation.

Ryaan had a choice: run with the unit

or go back for the boy who wasn’t on the list.

He went back.

They say he screamed for help — not for himself — but for Zayd.

They say he threw himself over the child when the second blast came.

They say he never let go.

---

Zayd is safe now.

He’s started drawing.

Mostly suns.

Sometimes a tall boy with tired eyes and a wide scarf.

When asked who the boy is, he finally whispered:

“My brother.”

---

Ryaan died with no medals.

No anthem.

Just a journal,

a leaf,

and a boy who lived.

---

Because sometimes, the bravest thing a person can do

is break the cycle.

To choose love over rage.

To choose someone else’s future

over your own.

---

And that’s what Ryaan did.

He didn’t win the war.

But he saved the world —

for one boy.

And maybe, that’s everything.

---