The command cracked through the air like a whip. Sharp, foreign syllables rolled across the marble hall, carrying an authority that froze conversations mid-sentence. Soldiers paused mid-step.
Reporters frowned, puzzled. No one moved, except her, Lina, the quiet cleaning lady in her mid-twenties, wearing a plain gray uniform with the sleeves rolled up, stopped dead in her tracks. She had been pushing her mop toward the far wall, lost in the rhythm of her work, when those words sliced through the noise.
They were a call she thought she’d never hear again. Her fingers tightened around the handle until her knuckles whitened before.
The general’s eyes scanned the room, searching, until they landed on her.
The air between them seemed to hum. Lina had worn a uniform once too, not long ago. Barely twenty, she had served as a field medic in a conflict that never made the headlines.
She remembered the smell of antiseptic mixed with dust, the sound, of boots pounding the dirt, the desperate voices calling her name. And those exact words, barked in that exact tone, had been the emergency rally command. The order to gather the wounded, to brace for impact, to hold the line no matter.
What? She thought the man who gave that order had been lost years ago. She thought her war was over. She was wrong.
The crowd murmured in confusion. What language is that? someone whispered. The general didn’t answer them…
Обсуждение закрыто.