The air in Manila hung heavier than dust, thicker than smoke from shattered buildings.

It carried sorrow. Blood. The weight of stories ending too soon. The once-vibrant city now wore a ghost’s skin: blackened walls, crumbling churches, and streets slick with mud and something darker.

Clara Hernandez stepped over a broken chair as she entered what had once been the ballroom of the University of the Philippines—now a makeshift hospital.

Her boots stuck slightly to the floor, which had seen more blood than dance shoes in recent months. The grand chandeliers above were long gone, replaced by flickering lanterns and dangling cords.

On the far wall, a painting of Rizal stared down silently, his face cracked by a bullet hole.

Clara moved past the groaning man without pause, ducked beneath torn cords, and knelt beside a stretcher with the practiced calm of someone who no longer flinched — not at the metallic scent of fresh blood, and certainly not at the distant boom of mortars that had become as familiar as the church bells once were.

She moved quickly but carefully, weaving past beds made from wooden doors and stretchers.

Her dark hair was pinned in a bun that had long since surrendered its shape, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Clara wasn’t a nurse by training—she had been a literature student. But war had a way of rewriting destinies.

“Hold him steady,” she told the young volunteer beside her, whose face was pale but determined. She bent over the boy lying on the cot—a teenage soldier no older than sixteen, with a torn shirt and blood-soaked pants. His eyes flickered open.

“Ka… kapatid ko, (My... my brother)” he mumbled.

“Shh,” Clara whispered. “You’ll see him again. Just stay with me.”

She threaded the needle with hands that didn’t shake anymore. The wound on the boy’s side was deep, a jagged tear likely from shrapnel.

She began to stitch, each pull of the thread anchoring the boy a little closer to life. One stitch, then another. In her mind, she tried to recite poetry—an old habit to quiet her thoughts.

“Not all battles are won with bullets,” she thought. “Some are won with thread and hope.”

Then the door burst open.

At first, Clara didn’t look up. Another stretcher, another patient. But something made her glance—perhaps it was the silence that followed, unusual in a room constantly alive with urgency.

He stood in the doorway like a specter: tall, broad-shouldered, and unmistakably foreign. His British uniform was torn at the shoulder, dusted with soot and dried blood. The cap he carried under his arm bore the insignia of a captain. His left arm was bandaged in haste, the cloth soaked through with red.

Captain Alistair Beaumont.

The name would come later. For now, he was just a man with eyes too tired for someone so young. Eyes that had seen villages burn and men scream. He scanned the room, not with arrogance but with a soldier’s instinct—measuring exits, checking corners.

And then his gaze met Clara’s.

It lasted a second, maybe two. But in the midst of suffering and death, that glance held something powerful.

He wasn’t looking at her like the others sometimes did. Some with pity, some with lust, others with fear. No. He saw her. He saw the exhaustion beneath her strong posture, the pain behind her calm voice.

And she saw him too, not just the medals on his chest, but the cracks in his armor.

Before anyone could speak, the ground shook.

A low, thundering boom roared from the direction of Intramuros, followed by the unmistakable whistle of a shell. Clara didn’t have time to think.

In a blur of instinct, she threw herself over the young soldier she’d been treating just as the blast hit.

Windows shattered. Dust and smoke filled the room. Screams erupted—some from pain, some from sheer panic. The shockwave knocked beds over, and a part of the ceiling crumbled.

When the dust began to settle, Clara coughed, her ears ringing.

She became aware of a hand gripping her waist. Strong. Protective. She turned her head slightly and saw him, Captain Beaumont, his body over hers, shielding her as debris rained down around them. His breath was ragged, close to her ear.

“You alright?” he asked, voice raw and accented.

She nodded, dazed. “Yes. You?”

He exhaled. “Close one.”

They were lying on a floor scattered with broken glass and splinters, their faces inches apart. Around them, chaos resumed.

But in that tiny space between their bodies… dusty, battered, and trembling—there was silence. A fragile moment untouched by war.

He helped her up slowly, carefully, as though she were something precious. Their hands lingered for a heartbeat too long before letting go.

Then he straightened, wincing slightly. “Captain Alistair Beaumont, British 14th Infantry,” he said formally, nodding his head despite the dirt on his face.

“Clara Hernandez. Civilian medic… and former poet,” she added, surprising herself.

“Poet?” he echoed, eyebrows lifting slightly.

She gave a tired smile. “Words used to be my battlefield.”

Alistair looked around. “Seems you’ve switched theaters.”

Clara crouched back beside the young soldier, who was now conscious and murmuring in pain. She reached for fresh gauze and gently pressed it to his side.

Alistair, without a word, crouched beside her and held the boy’s shoulder, calming him with a quiet voice.

They worked in sync for the next hour. No need for explanations or instructions, they simply understood.

He was no stranger to triage, and she had long since abandoned hesitation.

The wounded kept coming: men and women, soldiers and civilians, young and old. One girl, barely ten, arrived with burns on her back, and Alistair’s hands trembled only once as he cleaned her wounds.

Later, when the night deepened and most of the wounded had been stabilized or laid to rest, Clara found herself sitting against a pillar, rubbing her aching wrists.

Alistair stood nearby, staring out through a shattered window. Outside, the city was a patchwork of fire and shadow.

“I’ve been to France. Burma. North Africa,” he said quietly. “But this… this is something else.”

Clara looked up. “This is home.”

He turned to her. “I’m sorry.”

She appreciated that he didn’t say ‘it will be okay’. No false comfort. Just the truth, heavy and unpolished.

“Why are you here, Captain?” she asked.

His jaw tightened. “Orders. The British sent a few of us to assist the Americans. But mostly, I think they wanted us out of the way.”

“Out of the way?” she echoed.

He hesitated. “I refused an order. Back in Burma. It cost men their lives… but following it might have cost more. Command didn’t agree with my judgment.”

Silence stretched between them. The lantern near them flickered, casting soft shadows on the walls.

“I know what that feels like,” Clara said softly. “To lose people. To make choices no one else understands.”

He sat beside her, not too close, not too far.

“Do you write still?” he asked.

Clara shook her head. “Not since the bombings started. It felt… selfish. Writing poems while others were bleeding.”

“Maybe that’s when it matters most,” he replied. “When the world is bleeding.”

She looked at him—really looked. Beneath the officer’s uniform and weathered skin was a man carrying stories, regrets, and maybe hope.

And she realized, with a clarity that startled her, that she wanted to know those stories.

Outside, a siren wailed—a warning of another attack. But for now, in the fractured stillness of that ruined hospital, two strangers found something unexpected: recognition.

Like old souls meeting again, not for the first time but the first time in this life.

Clara stood slowly. “I should check the supplies.”

Alistair rose with her. “I’ll help.”

She gave him a curious glance. “A British officer taking orders from a civilian Filipina?”

“Call it collaboration,” he said, voice low, almost amused.

As they moved side by side, gathering bandages and rationing medicine, the walls between them began to fade—not completely, but enough.

Enough to let something in.

Something fragile.

Something defiant.

A spark, perhaps.

A spark in the ashes.

The night settled over Manila like a weary sigh, blanketing the war-torn city in darkness. No stars dared pierce the heavy clouds overhead, and the moon had vanished behind thick curtains of smoke.

Somewhere in the distance, gunfire cracked sporadically, a grim lullaby that had become all too familiar.

But inside the makeshift hospital, for the first time in days, there was a hush.

The wounded lay still—some unconscious from morphine, others simply too exhausted to moan.

Lamps burned low, their light flickering like fragile candle flames against the battered walls. The nurses had retreated to corners to rest their feet. Volunteers whispered quietly or cleaned quietly around the slumbering patients.

Clara Hernandez sat at a narrow wooden table near the back of the room, gently wrapping fresh bandages around her hands, calloused and red from hours of work.

Her hair was undone, the pins long since surrendered to gravity. A small kerosene lamp sat beside her, casting a halo of soft yellow light on the table’s surface, where an open notebook and a half-used pencil lay.

She hadn’t written in weeks. Not since the bombing of Sampaloc.

But tonight, something stirred inside her. A tug. A whisper.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Clara looked up.

Alistair stood like a shadow at the edge of the lamplight, his uniform rumpled, eyes sunken, and voice quieter than the silence itself.

Captain Alistair Beaumont stood nearby, his frame silhouetted in the doorway. He’d shed the outer layers of his uniform, revealing a linen undershirt stained at the collar.

A half-healed gash ran along his left bicep, the bandage beneath it slightly soaked. He looked as if sleep hadn’t found him in days, and yet his eyes, those deep storm-colored eyes, held a softness tonight.

“I never sleep well on quiet nights,” Clara replied, turning back to her notebook. “They feel like lies.”

Alistair walked over, pulling up a crate to sit beside her.

“A quiet night doesn’t mean the world’s stopped burning,” he said, his voice low. “It just means it’s catching its breath.”

She looked at him. “Poetic.”

He offered a faint smile. “Maybe I’ve been around you too long.”

Clara chuckled softly, surprised at how warm it sounded in her own ears. “I doubt a British soldier learns poetry from a Filipino field medic.”

“I had tutors. Governesses. Latin at eight. Shakespeare by ten.” He leaned back, sighing. “My mother insisted. Said a man should know how to speak gently, even if he lives in a brutal world.”

“And your father?”

“Preferred I speak with action. Guns. Orders. Obedience.” He paused. “He would’ve hated that I’m here.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“I defied protocol. Chose people over orders. He would’ve called it soft.”

“And yet, here you are.” She tapped her pencil lightly on the notebook. “Soft, maybe. But not weak.”

A long silence stretched between them.

The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, just… deep. Filled with unsaid things.

Outside, the wind whistled through broken glass.

“What about you?” he asked finally. “What did your parents want for you?”

Clara’s smile faded, not in sadness, but nostalgia.

“My father wanted me to be a teacher. My mother just wanted me safe. Neither of them expected a war to crash into our living room.” She looked down, her fingers absently tracing the edge of the notebook. “I used to write poems. About love. About revolution. Once, even about mangoes.”

“Mangoes?”

“It was a dare.” She laughed gently. “I made it into a metaphor about temptation. My professor called it ‘cheeky but vivid.’”

“I’d like to read that,” Alistair said.

Clara turned to him, skeptical. “You read Tagalog?”

“I’m a fast learner,” he said with a shrug. “Besides… maybe you could translate for me.”

Something in her chest fluttered. It wasn’t love, not yet, but something just as dangerous, possibility.

“You’re not like the others,” she murmured. “The soldiers.”

“I’ve never really been one of them,” Alistair admitted. “Not truly. I follow orders, yes. But I don’t believe all wars are just. I believe people get caught in the middle—good people.” His eyes found hers. “People like you.”

Clara looked away. Her throat felt tight.

“You don’t know me.”

“I want to.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty. It was full of heartbeats.

She stood, brushing off her skirt. “You should let me look at your wound.”

He blinked. “It’s fine—”

“No, it’s not.” Her voice was firm but kind.

“You’re still bleeding through your bandage. Come.”

He hesitated only a second before following her into the small infirmary section behind a torn curtain.

The lamp in this corner glowed faintly.

Clara gestured for him to sit on the cot, then gathered clean gauze and alcohol.

“Take off your shirt.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “You know, under different circumstances, that might sound scandalous.”

She rolled her eyes but smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, Captain. I’ve seen worse.”

Still, as he peeled the shirt off, the air shifted between them, warm from the lamp and the nearness of skin. Clara caught the faint scent of smoke and sweat—real, human, grounding.

Her fingers brushed his arm, and for a moment, the pulse at his wrist beat against hers. Clara’s breath caught slightly.

His chest was lean but scarred, evidence of other battles. A long diagonal mark ran from his rib cage to his hip, faded but unmistakable.

Clara cleaned the fresh wound in silence. Her fingers lingered slightly as she secured the bandage, not by choice, but by accident or something dangerously close to it.

He winced only once.

“You’ve done this before,” he said softly.

“Too many times.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

She met his gaze. “So are you.”

Their closeness was magnetic. For a fleeting second, she imagined leaning forward, resting her forehead against his. She didn’t.

But he must have sensed it too, because his hand gently touched hers as she secured the final wrap.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Clara nodded. “I wish I could do more.”

“You already have.”

Outside, a baby cried softly. One of the refugees had brought in her daughter earlier that week.

Life, it seemed, insisted on continuing.

“You said your poems were about revolution,” Alistair said as she sat back down. “Do you still believe in it?”

She thought for a moment.

“I believe in change,” she said. “Even if it comes slowly. Even if it’s just… one act of kindness in a broken city.”

He nodded, considering that.

“Would you believe… meeting you was a kind of revolution for me?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Clara looked at him—really looked. And then she smiled.

“Maybe.”

And maybe that was enough.

The next morning…

The illusion of peace didn’t last.

Shortly after dawn, gunfire erupted near the northern quarter of the city. Smoke began rising again, and the familiar rhythm of boots and orders returned to the hospital.

Clara stood at the entrance, watching as soldiers rushed past. Alistair came to her side, already dressed for duty again, the fatigue returning to his face like a mask.

“They’re pushing into Santa Cruz,” he told her. “American units are preparing to retake the district.”

She nodded. “I know what that means.”

More wounded. More death.

He turned to her. “When this is over… if we survive it… I’d like to take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere without guns or sirens.”

She laughed, a little sadly. “Is there such a place?”

“I’ll find one.”

She looked up at him, hope flickering despite the smoke in the sky. “I’d like that.”

He leaned in, not quite a kiss, but close. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

And just like that, he was gone—swallowed by the marching tide.

Clara remained at the entrance for a long moment, hand still lingering where his hand touched hers.

Then she turned, picked up her medical bag, and walked back into the room of the dying and the healing.

Because even in war, there were whispers of hope.

And sometimes, that was enough to carry you through the fire.

The war had a way of making even the quietest moments feel dangerous. Clara had once thought love would be a kind of refuge, a quiet, flickering light in the dark.

But lately, even that flame cast strange shadows. Whispers were louder now. Smiles held secrets. And sometimes, when she looked at Alistair, she wondered if she was seeing him clearly, or just seeing who she wanted him to be.

In the hospital-turned-schoolhouse, the walls no longer echoed with just pain and prayers—they buzzed with suspicion. Whispers clung to the air like humidity, wrapping around every glance and every conversation. Something was changing, and Clara Hernandez could feel it in her bones.

It was no longer just the Japanese forces they feared. It was each other.

Clara moved down the narrow corridor between cots, her shoulders tense. The wounded groaned softly in their sleep, wrapped in tattered blankets and whatever warmth they could muster.

Outside, the wind stirred the bamboo trees, but inside, the real storm was gathering quietly, slowly, like breath before a scream.

She didn’t jump when Rosa, the head nurse, stepped beside her.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” Rosa murmured, not unkindly. “Eyes always somewhere else.”

Clara forced a smile. “Not distracted. Just tired.”

Rosa didn’t press. But she didn’t walk away either. “Be careful, Clara. This war is hungry. It eats even the ones who think they’re invisible.”

And with that, she was gone.

Clara’s hand instinctively moved to her apron pocket, where a small, folded piece of paper rested. Another note from him.

From Alistair.

Meet me tonight. Behind the granary. Midnight. No one must see you.

She read it three times that day, each time with her pulse rising a little faster.

The granary stood just beyond the edge of the compound, half-collapsed and empty, its roof missing in places. To anyone watching, it was just another forgotten shell.

But to Clara, it had become a fragile sanctuary.

She arrived just as the moon broke through the clouds, her steps light, her breath catching with every creak of bamboo and rustle of leaves.

Alistair was already there.

He stood near a pile of empty sacks, his figure lit in silver. When he turned and saw her, relief softened his features—but even that smile looked worn tonight.

“You came,” he said.

“You asked.”

They didn’t touch, didn’t step too close.

That had become the rule. No unnecessary closeness. No attention. No risks. The hospital had eyes, and so did the streets.

They couldn’t be reckless, not anymore.

Alistair’s voice was low. “I heard rumors today. One of the officers is collecting names. Watching people. He mentioned a Filipina nurse—‘too friendly with the enemy,’ he said.”

Clara’s breath caught. “Me?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say your name. But I wouldn’t be surprised. You’ve been delivering rations alone. Talking to resistance volunteers. And—” he looked down, “—meeting me.”

Clara leaned against the wall, tension in her shoulders. “It’s getting harder. Even Rosa asked questions.”

“I don’t like this,” Alistair said. “I don’t like hiding, pretending you mean nothing to me. I want—”

He stopped.

She waited, her heartbeat louder than the wind outside. “You want what?”

He hesitated, then said softly, “I want a world where I could walk into your hospital in daylight and not have to lie about why I’m there.”

“I want that too,” she whispered.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The wind whistled through the holes in the roof.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Clara closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.

“We’re running out of space… a room to hide.” she murmured.

He stepped a little closer. Not enough to touch her, but enough for her to feel the warmth of him. “Then we have to trust each other.”

There it was.

That word.

Trust.

A small thing in peacetime. A lifeline in war.

Clara turned her face to him. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he said without pause.

She nodded. “Then trust me when I say this can’t go on like this. We’re going to slip. One mistake, and it’s over.”

He looked at her. “Are you saying we stop?”

“I’m saying… we need to slow down. Be smarter. If they see one more note, one more meeting—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “I know.”

They stood in silence again, two figures wrapped in moonlight and fear.

Before leaving, Alistair reached into his coat and handed her a small notebook.

“Write in this. Code it if you can. Keep it hidden. It’s safer than passing notes.”

Clara took it. “And what will you write?”

He looked at her. “Everything I’m not allowed to say out loud.”

The following days passed like walking on cracked glass.

Every conversation felt like a test. Every question from a fellow medic felt heavier. Clara noticed a soldier—Corporal Reyes—watching her from across the room more often than before. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes lingered too long.

And she noticed something else: Alistair had grown distant.

Not cold. Just careful.

He no longer lingered near the hospital gates. No more hidden notes. No more whispered plans. He had become a shadow, and she began to wonder if it was by necessity—or choice.

One evening, as she changed a blood-soaked bandage, Clara found herself thinking.

What if he’s pulling away?

The thought frightened her more than the bombs ever did.

It was Rosa again who brought the tension into sharp focus.

“Heard something strange today,” she said while wrapping gauze.

“What kind of strange?” Clara asked.

“A young private. New. Quiet. Said he overheard a British officer speaking with a Japanese sympathizer.”

Clara froze. “What?”

Rosa looked at her carefully. Her hands paused mid-wrap, knuckles white around the gauze.

“That’s all he said. No names. Just whispers.” Then softer,“But whispers kill just as surely as bullets, Clara.”

It felt like a trap. Like the walls were shrinking.

That night, Clara opened the notebook Alistair had given her. She flipped through the pages. Each entry was dated. Short, careful, coded in simple substitution. But she understood every word.

March 2nd – Saw Clara today. Her smile cut through the fog. I wish I could bottle it. Hide it somewhere safe.

March 5th – Ellis asked again about the hospital. Told him it was routine. Don’t know if he believes me.

March 7th – Beginning to feel like I’m the enemy on both sides.

The most recent entry stopped her heart.

March 10th – I heard they’re watching Clara. That she’s suspected. I want to protect her, but I fear I’m the one putting her in danger. I fear I already have.

She read the words twice. Then a third time. Her fingers trembled as if the ink were fire.

“I fear I already have.”

Did he mean it as guilt? Or goodbye? Her chest tightened.

Does he think I’m better off without him?

She wanted to scream, but all she could do was close the notebook. Slowly, carefully, like sealing something sacred and dangerous in a vault.

Was he pulling away because he was trying to protect her? Or because he no longer believed she could protect him?

The doubt crept in.

It always does.

They met one last time.

In the alley behind the burned-out market, just before curfew. It was Clara who asked for it, scribbled in the margins of a supply manifest he would check.

He came.

Of course he did.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“You already said that once,” she replied, forcing a smile.

But her hands were trembling.

“I read your notebook,” she said. “I needed to know what you weren’t saying.”

He didn’t look surprised. “And?”

She stepped forward. “You’re afraid I’ll be the reason they hang you.”

“I’m afraid I already am the reason they’ll hang you.”

Her eyes stung. “Do you think I regret this?”

“No,” he said softly. “But I think we’re close to the end of what we can hide.”

He stepped closer.

But didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t kiss her.

Didn’t touch her.

There were no promises that night. No declarations.

For a moment, she thought he might reach for her, just to touch her one last time. But he didn’t.

And somehow, the absence of that touch hurt more than anything else.

“If you disappear,” Clara whispered, “tell me somehow. Leave a mark. A sign. Anything.”

He nodded. “Same for you.”

And then he was gone, swallowed by the smoke of a city that no longer had room for fragile things like love.

Days passed. Clara didn’t see him. No notes. No messages. Not even in the corners of the compound where they’d once traded looks like secrets.

She heard rumors.

A reassignment.

An arrest.

A death.

None were confirmed. And that was the cruelest part. Not knowing if the silence meant he was protecting her—or if it meant she’d already lost him.