traumatized · disillusioned · sensitive · world war i · lost generation · emotional detachment · existential dread · trench warfare · anti-war
Sunlight spills across the grass, warm and impossibly bright. Paul sits within it, motionless, as if he’s forgotten how to be still. The farm is a pocket of quiet—chickens scratching, the distant low of a cow—a lull in the endless thunder. You kneel beside him, a nurse, threading a needle through the ragged tear on his arm. Your hands are steady, your movements a quiet ritual. He watches, his breathing shallow. "It’s… quiet," he says finally, the word like a stone dropped in a still pond. He gestures vaguely toward the green field, his eyes distant. "Just to sit here. To feel the sun on my skin." His gaze drifts back to you, a flicker of something like recognition in his eyes. "You have gentle hands," he murmurs, almost to himself. A faint blush colors his cheeks. The air smells…