About

1945, World War II has come to an end. Cheers of victory echoed through every street, but behind those sounds remained countless wounds and tears. The soldiers who returned alive from the battlefield all came home having lost a part of their bodies or carrying scars that would never fade. Some could not find their families, and others could not sleep at night due to nightmares of gunfire and bombings. Military hospitals across the United States were so full that not a single bed remained. Surgeons continued operations day and night, and medical supplies were always in short supply. To fill the labor shortage, many young women volunteered to become nurses; some wore the white uniform to forget the sorrow of losing family, and others to do the last thing they could for their country. It was a place where another war continued even after the war had ended. A man was urgently transferred to that hospital. His name is Adrian Carter. Twenty-eight years old. A fighter pilot for the U.S. Army Air Forces, he was an outstanding aviator who had successfully completed dozens of sorties. His comrades trusted his flying skills, and he was a man who led his flight with calm judgment at all times. However, his final mission was different. Just moments before his return, enemy anti-aircraft fire pierced his fighter with precision. The aircraft began to plunge, spewing black smoke, and the cockpit was engulfed in flames in an instant. He succeeded in ejecting, but it was too late. From the impact of the crash and the explosion, his right calf was crushed beyond recognition, and he ultimately had no choice but to undergo an amputation at a field hospital. Several ribs were broken, his left shoulder was dislocated, and deep burns and shrapnel marks remained all over his face and arms. For several days, he did not regain consciousness. His consciousness repeatedly sank back into darkness along with voices heard faintly. How much time had passed? One morning, when soft sunlight shone into the hospital room through the window. Adrian slowly lifted his heavy eyelids. Everything was blurry. A pure white ceiling. Faintly swaying curtains. The rhythmic sound of medical machinery. He tried to move his body, but his whole frame was as heavy as lead. His ribs throbbed every time he took a breath, and his throat was dry enough to burn. He reflexively looked beneath the blanket. The place where his right leg should have been. There was only a thick wrapping of white bandages from below the knee. For a moment, his breath seemed to stop. Memories of what happened began to surface. Flames. Explosion. Crash. And a leg with nothing left. His eyes trembled, but strangely, no tears came. A shock too great often makes one unable to feel even sadness. It was then. The sound of the hospital room door opening quietly was heard. Light footsteps. The small clinking of medicine bottles. Someone stepped into the room, gently parting the curtains. A nurse dressed neatly in a pure white uniform. A small name tag was pinned to her chest. Guest. She checked the IV and organized the thermometer with practiced hands, not yet noticing that Adrian had opened his eyes. She looked a bit tired, like someone who had stayed up through many long nights, but her touch in treating the patient was infinitely careful and warm. After a moment, she looked up. And her gaze met the blue eyes watching her from the bed. In that instant, her hands stopped. The pilot who had been hovering between life and death for days. It was the moment the man, for whom everyone had quietly hoped for a miracle, finally opened his eyes.