Truth...

Content Warning: this story contains themes of war, death (including child) and trauma. Scenes may include implied abuse and emotional distress.

“They have returned. After a decade overseas, our heroes are finally home. Triumphant! Just behind these walls, the first private reunions are taking place. We are waiting…”

A reporter spoke into the camera with polished enthusiasm. Hair lacquered, posture impeccable, a grin on her red-tinted lips.

On cue, another voice chimed in, a woman in a neatly tailored blazer, smiling just as the light on her camera blinked red.

“It’s official. We have won. We have brought peace. And just behind these doors…”

A third voice followed, male, with a broadcast baritone and a well-practiced smile.

“Today, the nation welcomes its heroes home…”

The reporters stood shoulder to shoulder, corralled behind waist-high barricades on the edge of the tarmac. Cables curled under their feet. Microphones changed hands between segments. Cameras adjusted. Smiles reset.

Behind them, the wide metal doors of a military hangar stayed closed. Not yet ready to open.

The transport plane had just landed, its motor still resonating in the deserted area. A group of soldiers begun disembarking in staggered groups, fatigued but upright.

Waiting nearby, a line of high-ranking officers in dress uniform stood with hands behind their backs.

The first officer stepped off the ramp and saluted the ranking official. The commander returned the salute. Crisp and ceremonial.

The rest of the soldiers filed past. Some receiving shoulder claps, others nods. A few handshakes were also exchanged.

Just before entering the hangar, the group was brought to a loose halt. A senior officer took a step forward, raising his voice, he spoke.

“Welcome home.

You’ve made us proud.

Your duty is done, with honour.

Go in. They are waiting.”

As the first soldier stepped into the hangar, a young woman ran toward him and leapt into his arms. He caught her tightly, his face pressing into her shoulder as her hair fell across his cheek.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

To their right, a boy bounced in the air, laughing.

“Woah! … Mum! Mum! Look!”

His father caught him and tossed him again, grinning. The boy’s mother stood nearby, arms crossed at her waist, joy stretching across her face, her eyes shining wet.

Further in, a father gripped his daughter, who was still in fatigues. She leaned into him, exhausted, hiding her face in his chest.

“You’ve done well. You’ve done well,” he repeated, voice catching.

An older woman moved through the crowd, scanning each face. Spotting a young soldier, she stepped forward on unsteady feet. But he saw her first and folded her into his arms, head bowed into her hair.

“I’m home, Mum,” he said softly.

She lifted her head and, with a trembling hand, touched his jaw.

“Thank you. Thank you for coming back home.”

As greetings continued, tears dried. Hugs loosened. Conversation bloomed in fragments: travel, food, stories half-told.

Towards the far wall, a couple of soldiers stood apart.

Silent.

Waiting.

As the hangar began to empty, one of them stepped away and slipped through a door marked “staff only”.

Not long after, from a narrow window down the hall, he watched as his comrades began to emerge, one by one, into the lights. One hand was pressed to his chest; fingers wrapped tightly around the three dog tags hanging at his neck.

Cameras flashed.

Reporters raised mics.

“What was it like…”

“…something so historic?”

“… people finally free?”

“…children and families…”

“…peace will hold… the regime has fallen?”

“What do you say…”

“…feel protected…”

“…worth it?”

An avalanche of questions hit them.

Some soldiers waved. Most walked stiffly, unsmiling.

One soldier made eye contact with a journalist.

Seeing an opportunity, the reporter raised her voice.

“Sergeant! Can you describe what liberation looked like out there?”

Caught off guard, he paused.

Then, standing still in the heat of the spotlight, he looked directly into the camera. His voice steady. His eyes unblinking.

“We brought peace. We did what we had to do.”

That gaze, solemn and still, filled every screen in real time. Beneath it, the anchor’s voice flowed in, smooth and reverent.

“Powerful words from a returning hero…”

The broadcast transitioned immediately to the capital.

Live.

Crowds marched. Flags waved. Voices rose.

A boy, perched on his father’s shoulders, shouted joyfully, clutching a plastic flag in each hand.

Across public screens, in shop windows, on phones held high above the crowd, the soldier’s face still played. His words echoing beneath the cheers.

“We brought peace…”

“Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!”

A thousand voices chanted as one.

“Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!”

The collective cry of joy rolled like thunder.

“Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!”

The chant surged forward, reaching the crowd gathered before the Parliament, where a grandstand has been erected.

As giant national flags rippled in the summer breeze, the President stepped on the platform.

“Today, we celebrate,” he began.

His voice was clear, carrying into the crowd, quieting it.

“Our heroes have returned. They have returned victorious!”

Applause erupted. Flags were raised. The crowd cheered.

“Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!”

Lifting his hand, the President smiled and continued.

“It was not easy.

We fought a brutal enemy. One who clung to power until the final day. Hiding everywhere.

It took ten long years. We endured great sacrifice.

And those we lost. Their memory will never be forgotten.

But we succeeded.

We annihilated them all.”

As his voice echoed, cheers erupted again.

“Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!”

One face did not bear a smile, though. A man in the press section was watching, listening, still.

“We stood firm in our mission to protect. And we fulfilled it.

So today, we can be proud. We stood on the right side of history.

Today, we liberated a nation.

Today, a people once silenced by fear can look to a future lit by freedom.

We have made the world safer. For them. For us. For generations to come.

Let this be the day we remember not only what we fought against.

But what we fought for.

Peace.”

Bzzzt…

A moment of silence.

Then the crowd erupted one last time — cheers, flags, cries of joy.

“Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!”

A brass fanfare rang out behind him, sharp and triumphant.

The anthem began.

The President stood straight, letting the voices of the people wash over him. And noticed the man silently watching him from below.

Crrk.

As the final notes of the anthem faded, the President turned from the podium. The crowd was still roaring, but the press surged forward behind the barricades.

“Mr. President!”

“…any message for the troops still overseas?”

“One question please!”

“Will there be a national holiday…”

Bzzzt... crrk.

“Mr. President!”

“Is this your proudest moment…”

Suddenly the serious man spoke. Voice low and calm, not shouting, but cutting through.

“What about the civilian deaths?”

The President stopped, turning his head, just slightly. His eyes landed directly on the man, cool and detached.

He replied with bored certainty.

“We brought them freedom.”

Smiling one last time, he left.

Crrzzt... fzzt... “…freedom.”

Bzzzt...

“Hurray!”

…bzzzt…

“Here — I found one!”

…bzzzt. Crrk.

“Hurray!” crrzzt…

“HURRY!”

Thud. Dust swirled. A worn-out boot lands next to a half-buried radio, wedged in the rubble of what used to be a house. Casing cracked open. Electrical wires spilling out.

“Hur—” bzzzt “—ay!”

The radio crackles, clinging to its purpose — to inform.

To connect.

To let someone, anyone, know.

“Today…” bzzzt “…celebrate!”

Another worn-out pair of boots hit the ground near its dented speaker grille, one sole flapping loose with the impact. Dust rose, then drifted on, drawn toward the dirty-white cloths, weakly fluttering from a makeshift clothesline in the restless breeze.

Their purpose the voice.

“HURRY!” urgent and raw, it cut again and again though the heavy air, still laced with the acrid smell of spent gunpowder and blood.

“We’ve got another one. Send more people!”

A man stood atop a mound of concrete, twisted iron and the scattered vestiges of life. He was breathing hard, torn between shouting for help and returning to the figure trapped beneath him. Behind him, half of a three-story building still clung to what remained of its structure, leaning like a broken spine.

“Hurry…”

As the two men carefully made their way up the collapsed building, a broken, insistent voice echoed from below, pleading.

“Please, no. Don’t. Please…”

Reaching the now kneeling man, quietly and carefully moving bits of concrete from around a ragged opening, they saw the trapped person. His head was visible, blood slowly pouring from a deep gash near his temple. His chest was free but both hands were pinned beneath the rubble.

He looked up once and murmured his plea in a quiet voice.

“Don’t. I’m begging you. Please, please…”

The two men quietly joined the efforts, moving splintered wood and carefully shifting pieces of concrete, mindful not to upset the fragile balance of the debris. Nails broken, dirt and dried blood coating their hands, they kept working silently.

Moving.

Piece by piece.

“Can you feel your feet? Are you hurt anywhere else?” the kneeling man asked the figure below.

No answer came. Only that low, continuous, excruciating pleading.

“Don’t. Please…”

Working together, careful to distribute their weight, they managed to shift a larger slab of concrete, widening the opening.

“NOOOOO!” a deep tortured bellow came from the hole.

“NO, no, no. Please…” continued the frantic pleas. Still looking down, he exhaled brokenly.

“I don’t…”

As they cleared the piece pinning the pleading man’s arms, they saw it.

He wasn’t trapped by concrete.

But, by something else.

In his left hand, he gently held a small hand; in his right, he clung to a larger arm.

“Please, leave me… I’m begging you” the man was crying now, choking on his words.

“Please… I don’t…”

Everyone stopped.

Someone sucked in a breath.

A muffled sound escaped, raw and involuntary, as if a soul had cracked and the grief has forced its way out.

“Ahhhmnn…”

One of the men who came to help turned his head sharply, looking out across the ruins. Searching, yet not. Seeing, yet not.

A world of grey.

Rubble everywhere.

Not a fully standing building. Not a home left whole.

Piles.

Just piles of debris marked the memory of place.

Burned out cars still pointed where the roads had once been, their skeletons tracing paths that no longer existed.

Smoke rose from scattered places. Curling upward, slow and reluctant. Blending with the heavy morning’s smog of dust and ash.

But life was still there.

Emerging. Barely visible.

It moved slowly, grey against grey, as if appearing from nowhere. Only movement giving them away.

They were coming to search.

As the man watched, his eyes began to water on a face still young, the soft pleading beneath him brushing his ears like an echo.

“Please. Leave… I don’t…”

The second man who came to help did not look away.

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He did not cry.

He simply stared. Still. Unseeing.

The kneeling man never stopped moving. He continued shifting pieces of debris. Smaller ones now. Tiny ones. His hands restless, scraping at dust with dirty fingers. His efforts futile.

Tears streamed down his face, soundless.

Still, he kept moving.

A woman who had just reached them dropped everything she was carrying – wooden planks, rope and strips of torn cloth, washed and bundled. The muffled sound still caught in her throat.

“Ahhhmnn...” low and broken, thick with the weight of recognition.

She turned and began to descend the heap of rubble. Unsteadily. Haphazardly. Her foot caught on a broken block of concrete; she slipped, skidding on the uneven slope. A jagged piece of rebar scraped across her ankle, leaving a thin red gash.

Still, she moved. Erratic. Unstable.

Sorrow and grief. Horror and pain. They surged out of her in broken, involuntary sounds.

“Mmmnn... Ha… mhhnn…”

Her breath came in sharp bursts. Her sobs crashed into her gasps. Her face twisted, streaked with tears.

“Huhh… Haaa… mnn…”

She reached the bottom and fell on her hands and knees, dust and pulverised concrete grinding into her palms.

A few tears fell, darkening the pale grit below her.

“Haah… hhhuuuh”

Getting up unsteadily, she made her way towards a half-standing wall and slumped down behind it. One hand clutched at her chest as she continued to cry in broken sobs.

“No… Hmmm… Hnnnn… No.”

Her other hand landed near a dirt-smudged plush bunny, its fabric torn, one ear dangling.

She never really touched it.

Always a couple of inches away.

Above her, half-hanging from a fractured beam, a sign still read in faded dirty-pink.

“Safe hands. Bright futures.”

Bzzzt…

“…liberated….” crrzzt… “…future.”

“Arghhh… f**k,” an annoyed voice intruded.

A few feet away, a man stumbled out from behind a heap of debris, the crumbled edge of this place for futures. His boot landed heavily, brown and ragged, thudding onto the dusty ground as he tried to steady himself.

“Get out of my may, you dirty mutt,” he snapped, as a dog scrambled out from underfoot, dragging unsteadily a bloody hind leg, tail tucked low.

The man never looked at it.

His eyes stayed fixed behind him, narrowed, but with a flicker of desperation. His shirt, once white, hung askew, held closed by a single button near the middle.

Not pausing to straighten himself, he hurried off, in the opposite direction of whatever kept pulling his gaze.

In his hands a wristwatch and two pieces of bread.

The dog limped away from him.

Whether following breadcrumbs or simply searching for them, the animal nosed along the same path which kept drawing the man’s eyes.

It moved over rubble, nose down, stepping through the broken terrain, passing by vestiges of life, and of death.

A small red shoe.

A shattered phone.

A mug, its edge chipped.

An old backpack, half-buried in ash.

A child’s drawing, rain-smudged, clinging to concrete.

A woman’s sobs.

Bent over a still figure, she wept wretchedly, clutching a stiff hand that had fallen from beneath a makeshift covering. The feet were exposed, one booted, the other bare, bluish-grey.

Behind her, five men strained to pull another limp body from beneath a slab of fallen concrete.

The animal dragged itself forward, slowly.

Past the trembling hand of an old man, crouched and leaning on his cane, as he brushed dust from what seemed to be a photograph.

Until its nose led it towards the dark opening of a one-story house. Still standing. Barely.

The door was blown clean off. The windows had shattered outwards, shards glinting across dusty grass and cracked concrete.

A wide, jagged hole gapped in the roof, as if a large fist punched through it.

The dog limped up the broken steps, sniffing the ground and some footprints.

Inside, was dark.

Darker then expected, despite the gaps letting light in.

Thick dust clung to the air, drifting in pale slashes where sunlight managed to find its way in.

Nothing seemed to be in its place.

Not a single piece of furniture whole.

A splintered table lay in pieces across the room. A sofa lay overturned against the wall, limbs up. Debris and porcelain shards mixed all over the floor.

A flowerpot lay in pieces. Its plant a few inches away, roots still clinging to the spilled soil. A few leaves still alive under the light from the splintered window.

The dog nosed through the wreckage, then passed through a jagged opening in the wall.

This room was darker. The ceiling here was intact. A lone window let in light, falling in a soft, slanted beam in the middle of the floor. Dust floated along its shine, slow and weightless.

Just beyond the ray of light, in the dimness under the window, a small figure rocked.

Back and forth…

Back and forth…

Between a low single bed with a pink comforter, dusty and crumbled, and a small study desk pushed slightly askew.

A girl sat on the floor, knees drawn tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around them.

Her gaze was fixed on the edge of the light. Unblinking.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t move.

The dog stepped closer.

And began to gently lick her dust-covered toes.

The rocking never stopped.

Crrzzt…

“…heroes…”

“How much longer?” a voice broke the silence from the other side of the wall.

...bzzzt… “…protected.”

“Tomorrow evening at the latest, they said,” came the rough reply.

Two men were standing outside. One was older, holding a battered clipboard. The other, younger, clutched a canister. His arm was wrapped in a dirty cloth, blood, fresh and dried, mixing at the seam.

“We need supplies,” he said, lifting the canister.

“We need food. We need help. Is anyone, someone, even coming?”

The older man didn’t answer at first. His eyes scanned a list of names on the chart, the corners curled and smudged with ash.

Too many familiar. Way too many overall.

“This is life,” he said quietly.

“Life? This is hell!” shot the younger man.

Turning, he strode off towards a group of men working in the distance.

His voice, anguished and angry, carried over his shoulders.

“They killed us. They killed us and left.”

The older man watched him go.

His fingers tightened on the board.

Before his eyes, a pile of bodies.

“Hur—” bzzzt “—ay!”