Olafagory

The overgrown, golden plains of Northbridge were deafeningly silent as Sergeant James found solitude atop a hill. The wide emptiness around him mirrored the void within—a stark contrast to the chaos of the battles he had faced.

That deployment, laden with the ringing of gunshots, bombs, and cries of the fallen, seemed a lifetime away, and yet their memory was ever-present.

On this memorial evening, as the sunset bled into twilight, James was consumed by the recollection of one fateful hour. He could see the enemy, feel the weight of his rifle, and hear the ominous whistle of mortars overhead. But it was the smell that overcame him most powerfully—the acrid sting of gunpowder and the iron-rich scent of blood poured across the red dirt.

As the memory intensified, the very air around James seemed to change. The fresh, grassy perfume of the plains was replaced by the unmistakable stench of battle. Eyes tightly shut, it was as if he had been transported back to that day, standing once again amid smoke and chaos.

Feeling a rush of trepidation, he opened his eyes to prove to himself he was not back there, in hell.