The Forgotten Messenger:

The November air was damp with fog and gunpowder as Private Thomas Ellwood stumbled through the churned mud of the front. The war was nearly over—at least, that’s what the whispers in the trenches claimed—but the killing hadn’t stopped.

Tucked inside the breast pocket of his coat was a single sealed envelope, stamped with the crest of his regiment and marked For Command Eyes Only. He’d been ordered to deliver it to the forward command post before nightfall. The officer’s voice still echoed in his ears: “Guard it with your life, Ellwood. If you’re captured, do not let it fall into enemy hands.”

The artillery barrage had shattered the road. Shell holes, fallen trees, and shattered wagons littered the path. He pushed forward, the cold biting his fingers through his gloves, his breath forming ghostly clouds. The letter felt heavy—far heavier than its paper and ink should allow.

Halfway through a wooded patch, the world erupted. Gunfire cracked from the shadows. Thomas dove behind a fallen trunk, his heart thundering. A patrol of enemy soldiers emerged from the mist, moving with the weary slowness of men who had fought too long. He tried to retreat silently, but his boot caught on a root. The snap echoed like a gunshot.

Shouts followed. He ran.

The forest became a maze, every step sucking into the mud. Branches clawed at his coat. He didn’t stop until the shouting faded into the distance. When he finally looked around, he realized with sick dread—he was deep behind enemy lines.

That night, he took shelter in the crumbling remains of a farmhouse. The wind howled through broken windows. By the light of a dying candle, he stared at the envelope. What could it hold? Orders for one last offensive? A surrender proposal? His mind played out both possibilities, each ending with lives spared—or lost—by a stroke of a pen.

At dawn, Thomas crept through the countryside, avoiding roads and patrols. Hunger gnawed at him, but the weight in his pocket gnawed harder. He thought of the boys in his unit—Charlie, with his terrible singing voice; young Bennett, who carried pictures of his newborn daughter. If the letter held orders for another attack, they might die before the war’s end.

By the second night, exhaustion blurred his thoughts. He found an abandoned barn and curled up in the hay. The envelope pressed against his chest, as if demanding an answer. He could open it. No one would know. But his oath—his uniform—meant something. Didn’t it?

On the third day, fate decided for him. A pair of enemy soldiers found him at the edge of a frost-covered field. Their rifles stayed lowered; they looked as tired as he felt. One spoke broken English: “War… soon finish. Why… you here?”

Thomas said nothing. His hand moved instinctively to the envelope. The soldier’s eyes followed the gesture. For a tense moment, the air between them felt like glass ready to shatter. But instead of seizing him, the soldier stepped aside, pointing toward a distant line of trees. “Home… that way.”

Hours later, Thomas reached the outskirts of friendly territory. The sound of artillery was faint now, replaced by the distant murmur of an army running out of reasons to fight.

At the command post, he handed over the envelope to the major, who slit it open without ceremony. Thomas watched the man’s expression shift from stoic to grim. The major barked orders to a runner: “Inform all units—offensive at dawn.”

Thomas’s stomach turned.

Three days later, the war ended with the signing of the armistice. But in those final hours, hundreds died in the offensive.

No one spoke of the letter again.

Years later, Thomas would sit in a quiet kitchen, staring at his hands, remembering the weight in his pocket and the choice he hadn’t made. He would wonder if breaking his orders might have saved lives—or if it would have only prolonged the war.

Either way, the messenger had been forgotten. But the memory of the letter never left him.