Dear Verina,
Another month has slipped away in the haze of war, each day indistinguishable from the last, marked only by the chill that seeps into my bones. The camp, once a place of resolve, has transformed into a suffocating silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of shifting shadows.
The landscape outside is bleak—an endless expanse of white and grey, as if the world itself is holding its breath. Contrasting the cold reality that envelops us, the beauty of winter appears as a cruel joke. The men move through their routines with a heaviness that mirrors my own; their eyes, once bright with ambition, are now clouded by uncertainty and fear. I find myself caught in their gaze, their hopes resting on my shoulders, and the burden is almost unbearable.
We've seen too much, Verina. Each skirmish etches itself into my mind, an indelible mark that refuses to fade. I have learned to silence the screams of the fallen, to ignore the weight of their absence that lingers in the air like smoke. But sometimes, in the dark hours when I should be resting, I hear them. Their whispers fill the void, reminding me of the cost of this war, and I wonder how long I can keep them at bay.
I worry that I am losing not only the men who depend on me but also the person I once was. Will you still recognise me when this is all over? Will I even recognise myself?
I wish I could shield you from this grim reality, to keep you safe from the darkness that is creeping into my soul. Please know that you are a bright spot in the midst of this storm, a reminder of what I am fighting for, even when the odds seem insurmountable. I promise to write again, though I fear my words may grow increasingly hollow as this war drags on.
Take care, Verina, and don't let my silence cause you worry.
With my warmest regards,
Victor