NightingaleSea

The old general sat in the ruins of his childhood home, his tired eyes tracing the jagged remains of what once held his happiest memories. The air reeked of burned dreams and distant grief, and the broken walls whispered stories of those who would never return.

Before him, a battered wooden box lay half-buried beneath the rubble. He pulled it free with trembling hands, his fingertips brushing away decades of dust. When he pried it open, he found it still intact—a puzzle, unfinished.

His father’s voice echoed in his mind. “Every piece finds its place eventually,” he had said, guiding his small hands over the cardboard fragments so many years ago.

But war wasn’t a puzzle. It wasn’t neat. It didn’t allow lost pieces to be found again. War stole, war shattered, war buried lives beneath ruins that would never be rebuilt.

A soldier stepped into the doorway, his boots crunching on debris. “Sir… the peace treaty has been signed.”

Peace… A word too fragile to stand against the weight of the dead.

The general stared at the soldier but said nothing. His fingers curled around a single puzzle piece, its edges sharp, cutting into his skin. He placed it onto the board, aligning it carefully with the image—the faded remnants of a town, once untouched, once full of laughter, once home.

But the picture was broken. Pieces were missing. Faces would never return.


He had led thousands into battle, had sent countless soldiers to their deaths, had carried the weight of victory and loss alike. And now, in the quiet aftermath, the battlefield behind him had fallen silent.

The war was over.
But the town would never be whole again.


The general closed his eyes, resting his palm over the puzzle. He could rebuild this image. He could make it complete again, in this small and meaningless way.

And yet, outside these walls, beyond the silence, beyond the treaty—nothing could bring back what had been lost.