Prologue:

The war had long passed, but the ground still whispered its secrets.

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‎Scarlet petals swayed like bloodied flags in the wind, each bloom a silent elegy to those who had vanished beneath the soil. She walked alone through the field, her fingers brushing the poppies as if they were names carved in stone—each one a story, each one a sacrifice.

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‎And then, as if called by memory itself, she danced.

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‎Not for joy, but for remembrance.

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‎Barefoot on broken earth, she moved with the grace of mourning. Every step echoed the past: the fire, the screams, the promises made in shadowed corners. Her dress caught the wind like a torn flag, her arms outstretched toward a ghost no longer there.

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‎They had called him many things:

traitor,

savior,

soldier.

But to her, he had only ever been Elias.

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‎She danced in the poppies so that no one would forget.

‎Not the war. Not the love.

‎And not the lie that shattered them both.

_____

Chapter One: The Bloom Remains

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‎The train hissed to a stop, exhaling steam like a tired beast. Isa stepped onto the weathered platform with a soft thud, the weight of her satchel pulling on her shoulder, though it was her heart that felt heavier.

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‎The village hadn’t changed.

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‎Same crooked houses hugging the hills. Same cobbled road leading to nowhere in particular. And beyond it all, just as she remembered, the wide-open stretch of land where the poppies grew wild and red, like a wound the earth could never quite heal.

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‎She stood there for a long moment, letting the wind kiss her cheeks. The scent was familiar—dirt, dew, and faint echoes of smoke.

‎

‎He died here.

‎

‎That was what they told her.

‎

‎Isa walked the dirt path in silence, her boots leaving faint impressions beside the stubborn weeds. Children used to play here before the bombs fell. Now the land was still. Reverent.

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‎She reached the edge of the field just as the sun dipped lower, spilling gold over red. The poppies bent with the breeze, dancing gently as though bowing to a long-lost song.

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‎She let her fingers graze the petals. Velvet. Fragile.

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‎Just like he said they would be.

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‎"Red is the color of memory," Elias had whispered once, lying beside her in a field just like this, gun slung across his chest and eyes on the sky. "And poppies never forget."

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‎She hadn’t believed him then. She wasn’t sure she believed him now. But she kept coming back—every year, on this day, when the wind blew a certain way and her dreams dragged her here.

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‎Isa stepped into the field.

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‎She didn’t cry. Not anymore. Her grief had aged into something quieter, something colder. But she moved through the flowers as if remembering how to breathe, how to feel, how to live in a moment she had buried.

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‎And then she danced.

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‎Arms wide. Feet light. The sun setting fire to her silhouette. Not for an audience. Not for peace. For him.

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‎So that the poppies would remember.

‎

‎So that the world would not forget.

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‎She spun once, twice—then stopped, breathless.

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‎The silence greeted her like an old friend. Isa closed her eyes and let the wind carry her backward, to the day she met the man no one else remembered kindly.

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‎

‎Three Years Earlier

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‎The field hadn’t yet turned red. It was still early spring, and the earth was brown, damp, and unwelcoming. Isa had wandered off her assigned route, following the sound of something strange—like a whistle caught in the wind.

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‎And then he spoke behind her.

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‎“You’re off the path, nurse.”

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‎She turned, startled. He stood beneath the bare branches of a twisted tree, uniform faded but eyes sharp. Too clean for a grunt, too quiet for an officer. The scar across his left brow told one story. The quiet in his hands told another.

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‎“Didn’t mean to trespass,” Isa said, clutching her bag. “I was just…”

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‎“Following ghosts,” he finished.

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‎She blinked.

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‎“I’ve seen that look before.” He stepped closer, boots silent on the soft ground. “Like you’re hoping the dead will say something new if you come back often enough.”

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‎“You know this area well?” she asked, shifting her weight.

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‎“I know where the land mines used to be,” he said dryly. “That’s why you should come back.”

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‎She squinted. “And who are you to tell me where to walk?”

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‎He hesitated. Then—a smile. Brief. Crooked.

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‎“No one. Just another ghost.”

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‎

‎Later, she would learn his name was Elias Dvorák. A liaison officer. A scout. A translator. A spy, depending on who was talking.

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‎But in that moment, he was a man who smelled faintly of ash and pine, who spoke like he was carrying something heavy in his chest, and who walked her back to safety without saying another word.

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‎She didn’t know it yet, but that would be the first of many walks.

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‎And the start of the slow, impossible blooming between two people already buried in war.

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‎

‎The rain masked their footsteps.

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‎Isa kept her head down, clutching the satchel of medical supplies to her chest as she followed Elias through the abandoned checkpoint. The night pressed in close—thick with fog and the scent of rusted metal.

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‎“Second guard’s shift ends in five minutes,” he whispered. “We move before they know we’re not theirs.”

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‎She nodded. No questions. She had learned that with Elias—he gave only what was necessary, trusted her to understand the rest.

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‎The mission was simple on paper: retrieve wounded operatives from a safe house beyond the ridge and bring them back across contested territory. But maps didn’t show shattered bridges, mines that clicked under the wrong foot, or the fact that the uniforms they wore didn’t quite match the region.

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‎Two steps off and they’d be shot as spies.

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‎Elias halted and lifted his fist. She crouched instinctively behind the crumbling brick wall.

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‎Voices.

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‎Two soldiers. Speaking Czech. Laughing about a girl in Prague, completely unaware they were thirty feet from the enemy.

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‎Isa’s pulse raced. She gripped the satchel tighter.

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‎Elias turned his head slightly, not to speak, just to check if she was still there. She met his eyes and gave the faintest nod. He didn’t smile—but something shifted. A flicker of respect, or maybe recognition.

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‎She’s not afraid.

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‎When the soldiers passed, Elias moved again, silent as smoke. They crossed the last stretch to the safe house, where the air reeked of disinfectant, blood, and desperation.

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‎Two men waited inside. One was already dead.

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‎Isa didn’t flinch. She knelt beside the second man, opening her kit. “Shrapnel in the leg. Fever. Delirium.”

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‎Elias stayed by the door, rifle ready. “We have nine minutes. Can he walk?”

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‎“If I stabilize the leg, maybe.”

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‎She worked fast, hands steady. No panic. No words. Just movement, breath, blood.

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‎Elias watched her like she was made of glass, but also like she was something dangerous.

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‎As they carried the soldier between them back into the wet dark, Isa finally spoke.

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‎“You don’t blink when bullets fly,” she said.

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‎Elias glanced sideways. “You don’t scream when men die.”

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‎A pause. Then:

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‎“Maybe we’re both ghosts already.”

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‎The fire crackled low, casting golden light across the stone walls of the safehouse. The wounded soldier slept in the next room, leg bandaged, fever broken for now. Rain tapped the roof like soft footsteps.

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‎Isa sat on the floor, sleeves rolled, arms streaked with dried blood. She didn’t speak. Neither did Elias. They hadn’t since they carried the soldier back. Silence had become their language.

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‎Elias sat opposite her, legs stretched out, back resting against the crumbling fireplace. His rifle leaned against the wall, but his eyes weren’t watching the door. They were watching her.

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‎“You stitched his leg like you’ve done it a hundred times,” he said.

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‎“I have,” Isa replied, rubbing her hands together. “I lost count after eighty-three.”

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‎“Eighty-three.” He said it like he didn’t quite believe her. Not because it wasn’t true—but because it was.

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‎She looked up at him. “How many have you watched die?”

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‎He didn’t answer. Not right away. Then:

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‎“Too many. Not enough.”

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‎The fire popped. Isa leaned her head back against the stone. “You ever think about leaving?”

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‎“All the time.”

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‎“And yet you stay.”

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‎Elias’s jaw flexed. “There’s a difference between running and surviving. I don’t get to do either. I have a job.”

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‎She turned to look at him more directly now. “Is that all you are, Elias Dvorák? A job?”

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‎For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer.

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‎But then he said, softly, “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

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‎Something hung between them then—not silence, but a stillness. A shared knowing. The kind that can only come after you’ve crossed into danger and come back breathing, side by side.

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‎Isa stood, walked to the fire, and sat closer. Not touching him. Just near enough that their shoulders shared warmth.

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‎“You smell like smoke,” she said.

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‎“So do you,” he replied.

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‎She smiled faintly, and for the first time, so did he—small, lopsided, tired.

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‎“I can’t promise much,” he said after a long pause. “But if I die, it won’t be with your name forgotten.”

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‎She met his eyes. “You’d better not die at all.”

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‎He didn’t answer, but the way his gaze lingered said he would try—for her.

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The air was too still.

Isa crouched low beneath a collapsed beam, her heartbeat drumming in her throat. Dust clung to her lashes. Somewhere above, boots scraped against stone. Voices. Orders. A language she didn’t understand—but tone didn’t need translation.

Elias pressed in beside her, his body still as carved stone, one hand lightly against her back, not restraining—grounding.

They’d taken a shortcut through the ruins of a shelled-out church to avoid a patrol. The shortcut turned into a trap.

Six soldiers.

One open archway.

No exit.

Isa’s breath caught when one of the men stopped just a meter from their hiding place. The soldier muttered something, lit a cigarette, and the flare of the match briefly illuminated the sanctuary—empty pews, shattered stained glass, ash.

Elias shifted imperceptibly, adjusting the grip on the knife tucked at his hip. Isa laid a hand on his wrist. No.

They had to wait.

The soldier took a drag, exhaled. The smoke curled toward them. Isa didn’t move, not even when her leg cramped. Not even when the warmth of Elias’s shoulder leaned harder into hers.

Minutes passed. Or maybe only seconds disguised as hours.

And then—a shout from outside.

Another patrol calling out. Something urgent. The cigarette dropped. Boots turned.

They were leaving.

Elias didn’t move until the last echo of footsteps faded. Then, without speaking, he took Isa’s hand and pulled her from the shadows.

Once outside the rubble, under the full pull of the night sky, she exhaled for the first time. She didn’t realize her hand was still holding his until she felt his thumb gently brush the side of hers.

“You didn’t flinch,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t breathe,” she shot back, heartbeat still wild.

He turned to face her fully then, their faces barely inches apart. His eyes searched hers—not for injuries, not for fear.

For something else. Something neither of them had words for yet.

“They would’ve killed you first,” he said, voice tight.

Isa didn’t blink. “And you wouldn’t have let them.”

It wasn’t a question.

He released her hand slowly, reluctantly. “We need to move.”

She nodded, but something had shifted between them in that breathless dark. Not just trust.

Promise.

They found shelter in the hollow shell of a hunter’s cabin nestled in a pine grove. The roof had caved in at the corners, but the hearth still worked, and the woodpile was untouched. It was enough.

Elias lit a fire with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times. Isa sat across from him, peeling off her damp gloves, flexing her fingers. They were silent for a while, each wrapped in their own thoughts—until the warmth started to thaw more than their limbs.

“You almost stabbed that soldier,” Isa said, glancing at him. “With a knife.”

“You say that like it’s a problem.”

She raised a brow. “It is when your backup is a field nurse and the plan is don’t get seen.”

Elias smirked faintly. “I’d rather die moving than be caught holding my breath under a beam.”

“That explains the scar on your jaw, then.”

He touched the spot absently, the old wound she’d asked about once. He hadn’t answered then. He didn’t now. But the look he gave her was amused.

“I was ready,” he said. “You flinched.”

“I stopped you from doing something stupid,” she countered, leaning closer. “There’s a difference.”

“You really think you could stop me?” he asked, and this time the smirk was playful, a little dangerous.

Isa held his gaze. “Elias, if I wanted to stop you, you’d be face-down in the snow by now.”

That earned a soft huff of laughter from him. “Remind me not to give you coffee and a scalpel at the same time.”

“I’ll put that on your medical chart. ‘Patient responds poorly to common sense.’”

He poked the fire with a broken branch, sparks flaring. “You’re not like the others.”

Isa blinked. “Others?”

“Nurses. Civilians. Anyone who’s still trying to live like the war hasn’t changed them.”

She considered that. “Maybe I have changed. But I’m still alive. That counts for something.”

Elias went quiet. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“You know what I thought, back in that church?”

She looked up.

“I thought if they saw us, I could buy time. Maybe run. Draw fire. Give you a chance.”

Her throat tightened. “You think I couldn’t have done the same?”

He met her eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

They sat in the quiet that followed—not strained, but heavy with things neither of them were brave enough to name yet.

Finally, Isa lay back on her bedroll, tucking her hands behind her head.

“You’re not as reckless as you act,” she murmured.

Elias settled beside the fire, lying opposite her. “And you’re not as calm as you pretend.”

A pause.

“But we make it work,” she added.

“Barely,” he replied, but there was a softness in the word.

Outside, the wind shifted through the trees like a lullaby. Inside, two ghosts lay in silence, waiting for sleep—or something like it.