The air reeked of iron and damp earth as Clara knelt beside the cot, her hands steady despite the chaos around her. The surgeon’s blade gleamed under the flickering lantern, slicing through a soldier’s mangled leg with a sound like tearing fabric. Clara pressed a cloth to the wound, her fingers numb from hours of work. Outside, cannon fire roared, shaking the wooden floorboards of the field hospital. She didn’t look up when the door burst open.
“We’ve got more,” a voice barked. A young man stumbled in, his uniform stained crimson. Clara moved without thinking, guiding him to a nearby cot. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated. “They’re not… they’re not men,” he rasped. “They’re wearing Union uniforms, but they’re…”
“What’s his name?” Clara asked, her tone flat. The surgeon leaned over the man, fingers pressing against his neck. No pulse. Clara exhaled, sharp and quiet. She’d seen this before—men who died before the bullets ever hit them.
Later, she found the documents in the officer’s tent. A stack of letters, their seals broken, detailing a secret supply route through the woods. The names were blurred, but one stood out: her brother. She folded the papers, her knuckles white. The war had taken his left arm last spring; this would take his life.
That night, she slipped into the woods, the letters tucked into her coat. The path was slick with rain, mud clinging to her boots. She reached the rendezvous point just as dawn broke, the sky streaked with bruised purple. A man waited, his face obscured by a hood. “You’re late,” he said. His voice was low, edged with something sharp.
“I had business to attend to,” Clara replied. She held out the letters. The man took them, his fingers brushing hers. “You’ll be safer if you don’t ask questions,” he said. “But you already know that, don’t you?”
She didn’t answer. The forest seemed to close in around her as she walked back, the weight of the papers still burning against her ribs. By evening, the camp was in chaos. Soldiers shouted, horses neighed. Clara found the surgeon in his tent, his face pale. “They’re coming,” he said. “The Confederates. They know about the route.” He looked at her, and for the first time, she saw fear in his eyes.
Clara didn’t wait for instructions. She grabbed a rifle from the supply cart, her hands trembling. The first shot cracked through the air, sharp and sudden. Smoke filled the camp as bullets whizzed past. She took cover behind a barrel, her breath coming fast. The letters were still in her coat, but they felt heavier now. This wasn’t just about her brother anymore.
When the attack ended, the camp was a graveyard of tents and shattered wood. Clara stood amidst the wreckage, her boots soaked in blood. The surgeon was gone, his tent reduced to embers. She didn’t look for him. Instead, she walked to the edge of the woods, where the letters had fallen from her coat. She picked them up, her fingers brushing the inked names. Some were familiar, others not. But all of them were tied to the same secret.
That night, she burned the letters in a fire pit, watching the flames consume the names. The war would end, but the scars would remain. Clara knew that. But for now, she had a choice: to let the past die with the smoke or carry it forward. She turned away from the fire, her jaw set, and walked back toward the camp, where the wounded still waited.
