He stared at his trembling reflection on the surface of the water inside the small metal bowl.
A young face.
Furrowed brows.
Eyes carrying something heavy—something without a name.
He didn’t see the face of a killer.
Instead, he saw an empty face.
A face searching for itself and failing to find it.
Slowly, he turned and headed toward the food distribution area.
A long line of soldiers stretched ahead of him.
Some bore the marks of battle on their bodies—minor wounds, scratches, bloodshot eyes clouded by exhaustion and terror.
He took his place in line.
Minutes passed.
Slow, heavy minutes, as though they carried the weight of everything that had come before.
When his turn arrived, a bowl of pale soup was placed into his hands.
Its scent was faint and unremarkable.
Alongside it came a loaf of bread no larger than his palm, dry around the edges and nearly crumbling apart.
He stared at them for a moment.
Then he moved on without a word.
He walked a short distance through the camp, passing clusters of soldiers and small campfires before sitting in the same place where he had sat with Amy the previous night.
The same ground.
The same cold stone beneath him.
The same darkness surrounding him.
But not the same person.
He slowly lifted the spoon and brought it toward his mouth…
Then stopped.
The soup didn’t smell that bad.
Thin wisps of steam rose from it, carrying a warmth his body desperately needed.
And yet…
His throat refused to swallow.
He tried again.
A small bite.
Barely enough to go down.
As if some part of him was resisting, striking back against his starving body and whispering:
Not now.
It wasn’t because of the taste.
It was because of that feeling.
That disgusting, crushing feeling that had clung to him since the moment he stabbed the soldier.
Since he watched the sword pierce the man’s chest.
Since he felt the body slacken beneath him like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The soldier’s face—
Even though he had never seen it clearly through the helmet.
Even though the man’s features remained a mystery.
It refused to leave his thoughts.
As if those unseen eyes behind the narrow visor were still there, watching him.
His grip tightened around the spoon until his knuckles turned white.
His stomach churned violently.
A wave of nausea rose into his throat.
Guilt.
It had begun devouring him from the inside with a ferocity he had never expected.
Why guilt?
Why did he feel guilty?
Wasn’t it kill or be killed?
Wasn’t it him or that soldier?
He tried to calm himself.
He failed.
He was helpless.
Afraid.
Weak.
And more than anything…
Empty.
A vast emptiness without a bottom, swallowing every thought that tried to form and every feeling that attempted to settle.
Was it because of his lost memories?
Was there another version of him somewhere—a version that knew who he was and knew how to deal with all of this?
Or was it because he didn’t belong in this place at all?
He didn’t know.
So he sat there, rigid and unmoving.
The soup cooled in its bowl.
The night advanced.
And the world continued turning around him, unaware that he had stopped.
Then—
A thump.
A light smack against the middle of his back.
Not painful.
But firm.
Unexpected.
There was even a hint of playfulness behind it.
It pulled him from his spiral instantly.
He turned around—
Amy.
She stood there wearing the same smile he had seen the night before.
Warm.
Genuine.
Free of pretense.
“What are you doing sitting here all alone like some depressed loner?”
Her smile was warm.
Painfully warm.
Strangely warm.
As though its very warmth revealed just how cold he had been.
And before he realized it—
Tears fell.
Silently at first.
A few drops escaped without permission, without warning, without consulting him.
Then the flood followed.
Hot streams ran down his cheeks.
Her eyes widened in genuine shock.
“What?!
Did I hurt you?
Did I hit you too hard?
I—I didn’t mean to!
I’m sorry!”
He tried to speak.
His lips moved.
But no words came out.
Only tears.
Only that heavy thing that had been trapped inside him ever since the stabbing.
Minutes passed.
During that time, she sat beside him in complete silence.
She didn’t pressure him.
She didn’t question him.
She didn’t explain why crying was shameful or why he needed to stay strong.
She simply…
Stayed.
Her presence alone was enough.
And gradually…
He calmed down.
His breathing steadied.
The wave passed.
Slowly, he wiped away his tears, moving as though he were embarrassed by them even in front of himself.
She looked at him carefully, her voice softer now.
“Are you okay…?”
“Do you need anything?”
He remained silent for a moment.
Then he spoke in a faint voice, barely audible.
“Killing someone…”
“It felt horrible.”
He said nothing more.
Just those few words.
Yet they contained everything he wanted to say.
She took his hand.
At first, she said nothing.
She simply held it.
“I don’t want to feel that again.”
She thought for a moment.
He could see it in her eyes, as though she were weighing her words before releasing them.
Then she spoke quietly.
“I know it’s hard.”
She paused.
“But…
this is life here.”
“Sometimes…
you have to choose the options you hate in order to keep going.”
He slowly lifted his head.
“Do you know what I hated most?”
She looked at him.
Waited.
“That I…”
“…felt happy afterward.”
His voice dropped even lower, as though the words themselves embarrassed him.
“Like it was an achievement.”
She shrugged with surprising simplicity.
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“It was an achievement.”
“We’re alive, aren’t we?”
“Isn’t that the greatest achievement we can manage here?”
Silence.
He looked down at the ground, trying to digest her words.
Then he said slowly,
“Killing him…”
“…was easy.”
“Disgustingly easy.”
“The moment the sword went in…
it was over.”
“There wasn’t…”
“…anything stopping me.”
She met his gaze steadily.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t avoid the subject.
“That’s exactly why staying alive is the real achievement.”
“Because dying…”
“…is far easier.”
His gaze lowered again.
She was right.
Completely right.
Death was easy.
Life was what required willpower.
He had survived.
And now what?
He sat here crying over something that had already happened.
Something that couldn’t be changed.
Couldn’t be taken back.
Couldn’t be erased.
He looked at the soup before him.
Then spoke quietly.
“I barely survived…”
“But…
there’s no guarantee it’ll be that easy tomorrow.”
His hand tightened around the spoon.
“I need to become stronger.”
“A hungry man…”
“…dies faster.”
Then—
He started eating.
Quickly.
Aggressively.
With determination.
As though he were clinging to life with every bite.
As though each mouthful was a small declaration:
I’m still here.
I’m still moving forward.
Amy watched him and let out a warm laugh.
“Slow down, glutton.
Your food isn’t going anywhere.”
He paused.
Looked at her.
Then a faint smile appeared on his face.
Small.
Subtle.
But real.
Her words weren’t just a joke.
They were a push.
A small thing that pulled him one step back from an edge he hadn’t even realized he was approaching.
He felt it clearly.
Deep inside.
Amy…
Had saved him.
Once again.