Dear Family,

As I write these words, dark clouds swirl above me. The sounds of battle grow louder with every passing second. Our trenches are filled with the stench of blood and gunpowder; with every step, death draws nearer. A void inside me grows larger with each moment, one that nothing can fill. I know everything ends here, and there is no escape from the fate that awaits.

I was a commander. The hope, leader, and comrade of dozens of soldiers. But every time I saw fear and helplessness in someone’s eyes, every time a soldier wrote a letter knowing they would never return home, a piece of me died. Witnessing war is like watching your soul being torn apart. That is why I write these words now: because I am leaving behind the last piece of me for you.

Here, I feel the horrors of war more deeply with every passing day. But the most painful thing isn’t the death around us. It’s the silent war inside. Every night, when I close my eyes, I see the face of a mother. A mother who has lost her son, whose only comfort is praying, hoping, “Maybe one day…” I silently apologize to her, for I know I won’t be returning to ease her sorrow.

Depression has become my closest companion here. The noise of battle only deepens the silence inside me. Every explosion, every gunshot, every step closer to death takes me further from the person I once was. I fight not only a war on the battlefield but a war within myself. The will to survive is all that keeps me going now, yet I know that dying here doesn’t terrify me. What terrifies me is the part of my soul that has been consumed by this war, the part of me that will never return to you.

For me, death is no longer a release; it’s simply the end of a long, agonizing road. But I want you to know this: every decision we make here, every step we take, carries the weight of someone else’s hope for survival. Those who do not understand the true nature of war might see everything as simple. But here, every loss is the end of another dream, another life that could have been.

And now, maybe in a few hours, maybe in a few seconds, I will see the end. I am no longer afraid of death. War has taught me more than just the fear of death—it has taught me the pain of loss, the grief of forgotten lives, and the unbearable weight of survival. Deaths are losses, yes, but it is those who survive who must carry the unbearable weight of those who are gone.

Do not grieve for me. War is just a beginning, and it will have an end. But do not forget this curse. Once, there was a man who carried hope in these trenches, only to be lost in the end. If history remembers anything, let it remember that behind this silhouette, there was a commander who vanished into the shadows, leaving behind only a fleeting hope.


My last request: Don’t forget me.

Major Dark