The Enemy and Vague Memories of the Past

Frank turned the photo over, his fingers trembling. On its backside, a phrase was scribbled in faded ink:

“Together we stay, together we die.”

His chest tightened as the words sank in, stirring something deep inside him. They felt so familiar, pulling him toward a memory he couldn’t quite grab. He turned the photo back, looking closely at the faces in the dim firelight. And then, in the corner of the picture, he saw it—himself. A younger version, standing carefree. Beside him was a girl, smiling brightly. The nurse. The enemy. In that moment, it all clicked.

He recognized his childhood best friend.

“Clara...” he whispered, his voice breaking.

The memories hit him like a storm. She wasn’t just anyone—she was his best friend from childhood. They had grown up together, their bond unshakable.

He remembered the day they had carved their initials into that same tree, declaring that they would always stick together no matter what. Clara had smiled and said, “No matter where we go, we’ll always be Frank and Clara—the unbeatable duo.”

Another memory folated: the rainy day they had raced through the muddy streets after school. They were soaked to the bone, but they didn’t care. When they finally reached his house, Clara had grinned mischievously, grabbed a handful of mud, and smeared it across his face. He had retaliated, and they’d both ended up laughing so hard they forgot about the scolding they’d get for ruining their clothes.

But then, life changed. Clara’s family had moved to another country, leaving Frank behind with nothing but those memories. He had waited for letters, for news, for anything, but none came. She had disappeared from his life as if she had never been there, and now, after all these years, fate had brought her back to him in the most unimaginable way.

Frank sat by the fire, tears streaming down his face as he stared at Clara’s pale, wounded body. Her chest rose and fell faintly, each breath weaker than the last. The cold was creeping in fast, and he knew she wouldn’t last the night without help.

He stood up, determined to find something to keep her warm. Not far away, he noticed a tattered blanket near a fallen soldier. It was dirty and bloody, but it would have to do. As he walked toward it, memories of their childhood filled his mind, making each step feel heavier.

Just as he reached out for the blanket, a loud gunshot broke the silence of the night.

“BHSOOM!”

The gunshot echoed through the forest, and Frank spun around, his heart pounding. He saw Clara’s body jerk violently as a bullet struck her chest.

“No!” Frank screamed, his voice raw with anguish.

He dropped the blanket and ran to her, falling to his knees beside her lifeless form. Blood seeped through her uniform, staining the ground beneath her. Her eyes fluttered open briefly, and for the first time, she looked at him—really looked at him. Recognition flickered in her gaze, followed by a weak, fleeting smile. Then, her eyes closed forever.

“Clara... no... no, no, no!” Frank’s voice cracked as he cradled her in his arms.

He looked up, his tear-filled eyes meeting those of the soldier who had fired the shot. The man lowered his rifle, his expression blank. To him, Clara was nothing more than an enemy—a target that had to be eliminated.

Frank’s shoulders shook as he held her, the weight of grief pressing down on him. He remembered the way she used to tease him, her laugh like a melody. And now, she was gone.

That night, Frank understood something he had been blind to for so long. Wars didn’t care about innocence. They didn’t care about the bonds people shared or the lives they had lived. To war, everyone was just a pawn—disposable, replaceable.

He gently placed Clara’s lifeless hand on her chest and looked at the photo once more. The words on the back—“Together we stay, together we die”—pierced his heart.

Sitting beside her body, illuminated by the flickering firelight, Frank whispered, “You didn’t deserve this, Clara. None of us do."

The memories of Clara—the girl who had been his best friend, his sister in all but blood—would haunt him forever. And so would the realization that war was not a battle of right or wrong, but a tragedy of lost humanity.

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Part 1 by a Young Talent; Sk Parihar :

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MORAL OF THE STORY: When war takes over, even the purest bonds and innocent lives are not spared.