After the Silence

The war did not end for him when the guns went quiet.

It ended in smaller ways— in the way his hands still shook when doors slammed, in how silence felt louder than artillery, in how sleep refused to come unless exhaustion dragged it in by force.

He crossed the border with nothing to declare. No wounds that bled. No medals that mattered. The uniform was folded away, but his body hadn’t been told yet. It stayed alert, listening for commands that never came.

People said welcome back. They said you’re safe now. They said it’s over.

They were wrong.