Lucavion.
Jessie remembered the first night he sat beside her at a backwater supply post. She hadn't spoken a word to anyone in days. She had been ready to vanish, to slip out past the patrols and disappear into the snow. But he had brought two chipped cups and a half-empty bottle—not of liquor, but preserved fruit tonic. Some awful mix the supply sergeants passed off as a "celebration ration."
"Drinking doesn't fix it," he'd said that night, calm as ever, "but sharing something bitter makes it easier to swallow."
He didn't let her drink then. Not real alcohol. Said it would only make the weight worse when she stood up again.
And the worst part was… he was right.
But you didn't stay, she thought. You didn't stay long enough to see what happened after.
When he vanished, she didn't fall back into despair.
She fought. She rose. She clawed her way up.
And somewhere along that way, alcohol had become easy to reach.
Not to forget—but to fill the silence.
