October 1916, inside a British trench on the eastern side of the River Somme

The war raged non-stop for three days and nights. In waves, soldiers clambered out of the trenches, charging headlong into the smoke, disappearing as if swallowed whole by the hungry haze.

Inside the trench, only two soldiers remained: one old, one young. The young soldier, named Edward, bore the scars of youth: optimism in his eyes, fear in his heart. The older, whose name had been forgotten in the cacophony of war, had the weight of many years upon him. His face was deeply etched with lines that spoke of battles fought long before this one. They sat silently, backs against the muddy walls, eyes closed.

Scattered about them were unrecognizable corpses, some already infested with maggots, emanating a stench strong enough to numb any sense of smell. German artillery had them pinned, and their supply lines had been cut off in a bombardment three hours earlier.

From not too far ahead, the distinct chatter of German Maxim guns resounded, whispers of the Grim Reaper. The sporadic explosions of shells punctuated the soundscape, with fragments causing vibrations that shook loose dirt from the trench walls, landing mercilessly on the soldiers' shoulders.

Breaking the suffocating silence, Edward asked, “Do you have any family left?”

“No,” the older soldier responded, his voice weighed down. “Where I came from, famine and the Spanish flu struck at the same time. Few survived.”

“What about friends?”

“Damn it all, I might've had some three days ago, but now they're probably lying in craters in no-man's land.”

“And a lover?”

The older soldier's face twitched, and his grip on his rifle tightened. “...None. What about you?”

“To be honest, that’s part of why I'm scared. I've got a father in his sixties, and three brothers, all on the frontline. I don't know how they're doing, but I pray for their safety. Oh, and I have a fiancée, Mary. She's 23, with golden hair. But it's her big, blue eyes that I adore most. You could get lost in them, they’re as blue as the sea on a summer’s day, as beautiful as a fairy tale. Before I left, we promised to get engaged once the war was over.”

From his pocket, Edward retrieved a tattered leather notebook. He began flipping through its pages, each filled with pencil sketches of a young, beautiful woman. To anyone looking, her captivating eyes would undoubtedly be the first thing to catch their attention, seemingly shimmering despite only being lines on paper.

He gently caressed the worn pages with dirty fingers, tracing over the sketches. The young man said nothing more, closing his eyes as he continued to touch the drawings.

The damp cold of the trench seemed to penetrate deeper into the older soldier's bones as he observed the young man's silent reverence. Each motion Edward made, every subtle nuance, was like watching a ghost from his own past. It was as though he was viewing a reflection of himself from a time long since lost, a time when he too had hope, dreams, and a love that made every battle, every scar, worth the pain.

"Do those sketches bring comfort?" he found himself asking, despite his usual reticence.

Edward opened his eyes, caught off guard. "In ways I can't describe," he replied softly. "They’re a reminder of a life outside this hell, a promise of something better waiting."

A bitter smile touched the older soldier's lips. "Promises. I remember holding onto such things myself. But over time, they became too painful to keep close. They were reminders of everything I was losing."

Edward studied the grizzled face of the man beside him, seeking stories hidden behind the mask of scars and weariness. "You had someone, didn't you?"

The older soldier hesitated, the pain of memories long buried threatening to surface. But the young man's earnest gaze compelled him. "Her name was Clara," he began, his voice soft with remembrance. "She had a spirit that could light up even the darkest nights. We grew up together in a small village in Cornwall, running wild through the fields and dreaming of all the adventures we'd embark on."

Edward's eyes shone with interest. "Sounds like a love story right out of the books."

"It was, in the beginning," the older soldier admitted. "We had plans, dreams of traveling the world, maybe settling down on a farm somewhere in the countryside. But then the war came, and like so many others, I got swept up in the fervor."

"You left her behind?" Edward asked, a note of sadness in his voice.

The older soldier nodded, pain evident in his eyes. "I promised her I'd come back. She gave me a pendant, said it would keep me safe. I clung to it, believing in its magic, in our love."

Edward's eyes darted to the older man's chest, searching for the mentioned pendant. Seeing his gaze, the older soldier reached into his shirt, pulling out a worn, tarnished pendant. The chain had snapped long ago, and now it lay wrapped around his fingers.

"She sounds incredible," Edward murmured, the weight of his own promise to Mary pressing down on him. "What happened?"

The older soldier's grip on the pendant tightened. "Letters came and went, each filled with hope and longing. But the war, it changed me. Every battle scarred not just my body, but my soul. The world outside the trenches seemed distant, almost unreal. And Clara, as much as I loved her, became a dream, a memory that was too painful to hold onto."

A heavy silence settled between the two men, filled only by the distant sounds of war. After a moment, Edward asked, "Do you regret it?"

Regret. The word hung in the air, dense and palpable. The older soldier looked deep into the young man's eyes, seeing the fear and uncertainty lurking there. "Every day," he confessed. "But regret doesn't change the past. It's a chain that binds, holding you captive in moments long gone."

Edward swallowed hard, the reality of the older soldier's words hitting close to home. "I can't imagine losing Mary, letting her become just a memory."

The older soldier placed a hand on Edward's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Then don't. Hold onto her, your dreams, your hopes. Don't let the war take them from you."

"But how? How do you keep hope alive in a place like this?" Edward's voice trembled with emotion.

The older soldier sighed, searching for words that would offer comfort. "By remembering. By reminding yourself every day why you're fighting, who you're fighting for. By keeping their memory close, letting it shield you from the horrors around you."

Edward nodded slowly, processing the older soldier's words. "Thank you," he whispered, clutching the notebook tighter to his chest.

The two men sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts. The older soldier's heart ached for the young man beside him, hoping against hope that Edward wouldn't suffer the same fate he had. That he would return to Mary, to a life filled with love and promise.

And as the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the trench, the older soldier made a silent vow. He would do whatever it took to protect Edward, to ensure he had a chance at the life that had been stolen from him.

For in that moment, the older soldier realized that perhaps he could find redemption, a chance to right the wrongs of his past. And in doing so, maybe, just maybe, he could find a sliver of hope once more.

He clutched his pendant tighter, the silver chain cold against his skin. The pendant, a simple silver locket containing a faded photograph of Clara, was a constant reminder of a love lost but never forgotten. It was his last tangible connection to a life once filled with joy, laughter, and dreams of a future. Now, it served as a symbol of the promises he couldn't keep.

Edward watched the old soldier's fingers dance over the locket, his own heart aching with empathy. He didn't need to know the intricate details to understand the depth of pain the older soldier carried. Their shared moment in the trench, discussing Mary and Clara, had built a bridge between them, one built on mutual respect and a shared understanding of the price of war.

Yet, in that connection, Edward found himself teetering on the edge of fear. The old soldier’s pain was palpable, a living testament to the war's ability to maim not just the body but the soul. And as Edward clutched his own sketchbook, he wondered if he too would become a relic of memories, haunted by dreams turned to nightmares.

"You ever think of... moving on? Finding new dreams?" Edward ventured, trying to steer the conversation away from the encroaching despair.

The old soldier’s gaze remained distant, but there was a glint of contemplation. "I tried," he admitted. "But some memories anchor you so deeply, it's hard to break free. Every time I attempted to rebuild, the ghosts of the past would return, reminding me of what I've lost."

Edward swallowed hard. "But doesn't that mean you're still living in the past? A prisoner of your own memories?"

The old soldier considered this, his gaze shifting to meet Edward's. "Perhaps. But maybe it's those very memories that have kept me alive this long. In a world filled with chaos, they've been my anchor, reminding me of who I was... who I could've been."

Edward shifted uncomfortably, realizing that he might be peering into a potential reflection of his own future. The weight of it pressed down on him. "I want to believe that there's a way to hold onto the past without letting it dictate the future," he murmured.

The old soldier chuckled softly; a sound tinged with sadness. "Ah, the optimism of youth. I remember when I felt the same way. But life... life has a way of teaching you harsh lessons."

A sudden explosion nearby rocked the trench, throwing both men off balance. Dust and debris rained down upon them. The war was reminding them of its ever-looming presence.

As the dust settled, Edward, panting heavily, looked over to find the old soldier gripping the side of the trench, his face pale but determined. "This war... It's relentless," Edward whispered.

The old soldier nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon. "It is. But so are we."

A brief silence followed, punctuated by the distant cries of men and the mechanical sounds of warfare. Then Edward spoke, his voice determined, "When this is over, I'll find Mary. We'll build our future, away from all this madness."

The old soldier smiled, albeit sadly. "I truly hope you do, lad."

Suddenly, the distant sound of British artillery ceased, often a precursor to the next wave of attack. German machine guns went silent too, as if paying silent respect to the brave and fallen soldiers, waiting for the next wave of innocent souls to perish shortly under their slithering string of bullets.

Edward, now sensing the dreading indication of the sudden “peace”, looked up at the gray sky. Voice trembling, he asked “Are you afraid of death?”

A moment of silence before the older soldier responded. He reached into his pocket, fortunately finding one last dry cigarette. Lighting it, he took a long drag, allowing the smoke to deeply permeate his lungs before exhaling, “Yes, but there are things more important than death.”

“Like what?”

“Home, friends, loved ones.”

“And?”

“Hope.”

Before the words had fully settled, the older soldier swiftly knocked out the unsuspecting Edward with the butt of his rifle. Gently cradling the unconscious soldier, he settled him into the safest corner of the trench. Struggling, he aimed the probably-defunct radio antenna in the direction of the command post.

“Reporting to command, 3:23 PM, 307th regiment: 174 dead/missing, 1 alive. Urgent reinforcements needed.”

With one final glance at Edward, now cradling unconscious as if in a sound sleep, the older soldier charged out of the trench. As he ran, the burning end of his cigarette, nearing its filter, glowed in a blinding red.