After all the earlier chaos had settled, we finally sat down in the living room. On the table, the letter that had briefly been forgotten now became the center of our attention. At first glance, there was nothing special about it—just a single sheet of paper neatly folded inside a faded brown envelope, slightly crumpled at the corners from the long journey it had endured.
But when Mom turned the envelope over and saw the stamp on the back, we all held our breath for a moment.
"Passed military censorship," she whispered softly, reading the faintly printed words aloud.
We looked at each other. That sentence could only mean one thing—this letter was from Dad.
"Hm, looks like this one's for Erina," Mom said, offering the envelope to me.
"Seems like it," I replied, taking it carefully.
This wasn't the first time we'd received a letter from Dad since he went to the frontlines. Even before the conflict broke out, letter writing had already become our routine. What made it a little unique was the unspoken turn-based system we had—Dad would write one letter for Mom, then the next one for me. This time, it seemed, was my turn.
Gently, I tore open the top of the envelope, trying not to damage the contents. The paper inside was neatly folded, still carrying a faint scent of metal and earth—the familiar smell of the field, far from here. Mom sat beside me in silence, though I knew she was watching every movement I made closely.
I unfolded the letter and began reading slowly:
---
Hello, Erina. How are you? I hope you and your mom are safe and happy at home. I'm doing fine here—much better than I expected, to be honest. You must've heard the news about our consecutive victories, right? Yeah, it's been amazing. But honestly, that's not what I want to talk about in this letter.
A few days ago, when things were calm and there was no fighting, we—the members of my unit and the officers—had a casual chat. Just something to pass the time. We talked about home, about the people we missed… and about our families. Most of them are still young—many unmarried or just newly married, so they don't have children yet.
But a few are older. One of them is my adjutant, Hans. He's the most senior in our unit. Amazingly, his son has already joined the military too—in the artillery division. Can you imagine that? He and I had a bit of a friendly rivalry—bragging about our kids, of course in a lighthearted way. Then suddenly, one of the others mentioned that his child dreamed of becoming a pianist.
Right then, everyone chimed in—talking about their children's dreams, from doctors and farmers to children's book authors. But me… I could only stay quiet.
Because I realized… I don't even know what my own daughter, Erina, dreams of becoming.
I was so ashamed, sweetheart. When they asked me, I could only smile and change the subject. I don't know why, but that small thing felt like a gentle slap—one that still hurt. Maybe I've been too busy with all the big things in life and ended up missing the little things that matter most. So through this letter, I want to ask you directly…
What is Erina's dream?
No matter how strange or simple the answer may be, I want to know. Because no dream is too small when it comes from my daughter.
Write it to me in your reply, okay? I'll be waiting.
With love,
Dad.
---
I fell silent, my eyes still fixed on the faded black ink of the letter. My heart felt warm… but it also ached. Somehow, out of all the letters Dad had ever sent, this one touched me the most.
Mom watched me gently, but said nothing. Maybe she felt the same way I did.
I slowly folded the letter again, as if each crease were a way to protect Dad's words, to keep them whole. Then, without even thinking, I pressed the paper tightly against my chest, trying to soak in whatever warmth still lingered within it. For a fleeting moment, it felt like Dad's arms—reaching out from the distant battlefield—were holding me in his soft embrace.
Mom gave me a small, warm smile.
"So," she said quietly, "how are you going to answer him?"
I said nothing, staring off into the distance. "Dreams, huh…"
To be honest, I'd nearly forgotten what that word even meant.
To me, the word dream sounded like something foreign—like an artifact from a past long lost. The world I grew up in wasn't a place for dreams. In my old life, there was only survival—calculating enemy positions, planning eliminations, predicting the next move in battles where I didn't even know the opponent's name.
Simply put… my dream used to be just one thing—to stay alive. To survive one more day in the hell humans had created for themselves.
But suddenly, a memory surfaced. Cracked and blurry, yet vivid enough to feel real.
Before I joined the military—back when I was still living on the streets, dirty and aimless—I once saw a young woman performing on a city sidewalk. She was playing an old, scratched-up acoustic guitar, but the voice that came out of her mouth… God, her voice could stop the world. Soft, calm, and full of sorrow—like it came from somewhere far away, from a peaceful place I'd never known.
I remember I was starving that day. My stomach growled as I rummaged through piles of trash for scraps of food. But when her voice reached my ears, the hunger vanished. I stopped in my tracks, standing frozen in the middle of the small crowd around her, and for the first time in a long time… I felt alive.
I came back the next day. And the day after. And again after that. At first, she didn't even notice me—I was just another stranger in the sea of street spectators. But eventually, she began to see me. And every time she smiled in my direction—even for just a moment—it felt like I had a place in this world. Just from that smile… I felt noticed. Acknowledged. Seen.
But like all beautiful things in my life, she disappeared.
News of an extremist attack spread quickly, and the area where she usually performed was one of the places hit. After that, I never saw her again. No more songs. No more smiles. Just silence—and an empty space in my memory.
Without realizing it, my lips moved.
"…A singer, huh?"
Mom turned to me, a little surprised. "Oh? That's… unexpected."
I nodded slowly, almost embarrassed to have said it out loud. Maybe because I was only now realizing it myself. Beside me, Mom smiled—not in a mocking way, but with a kind of warmth that was hard to explain. As if she understood more than I could put into words.
"Ah…" I murmured, gazing toward the dim window. "I don't even know if I can sing…"
"But you know it makes you feel alive," Mom said softly.
I looked down at the letter still in my hand, and for the first time in ages… I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could start building a dream again. Even in the middle of a war.
"This might be fate!" Mom suddenly burst out, her eyes lighting up like a child discovering a new toy. "I just remembered—Marlene Hoffmann is holding a concert in the Entertainment District three weeks from now! Let's go see it! Maybe it'll inspire you!"
I stared at her, baffled and caught off guard. "…Eh? Why does it sound like you've already made the decision?"
"Of course I have!" she shot back, as if it had all been planned long ago. "The entertainment world is tough, sweetheart. If you're even slightly interested in being a singer, it's better to start now! Hearing a diva like Marlene live is a rare opportunity!"
I could only sigh softly. Somehow, Mom was way more excited about this than I was.
"Well then, I think it's time for you to write your reply to your dad. Don't keep him waiting too long, alright?" she said again, this time in a gentler tone.
"Hmmm… yeah, yeah." I nodded slowly.
She was right. I didn't want my dad—out there on the battlefield—to wait too long just to hear his daughter's voice.
"But before that…"
"Hm?" I turned toward her, suspicious.
"I've got a present for you."
"Eh? A present?" I blinked, confused. "But… didn't I already get a bunch of gifts for my birthday last week?"
She just smiled—that suspicious kind of smile.
"Feel this!"
"W-Wait, what!?" I barely had time to react before her fingers dove straight toward my waist and launched a merciless attack. "Hahahaha! T-This is torture, not a gift!"
"I just wanted to hear Erina's cute laugh again!" she cried out with glee, her voice light but relentless—like a professional executioner who knew all my weak points.
"Stop! Hahaha! I-I'm serious—! This is—HAAH! Mom!"
I kicked and squirmed on the sofa, helpless under the onslaught of relentless tickles. My breath caught in my throat from laughing, tears welled at the corners of my eyes, and my face turned red like an overripe tomato. But there was no escape. Her hands moved like shadows—striking from angles I couldn't predict, landing with terrifying accuracy.
"Still the weak spot, huh?" Mom hummed with satisfaction, her fingers dancing along my sides, then my neck, under my chin, and back to my ribs—like she was playing her favorite song on my body.
"Moooom! Mercy! Hahaha! I-I mean it—I can't breeeeathe!"
"Don't give up so fast. A future singer needs strong breath control," she grinned devilishly, clearly enjoying the chaos she was causing.
I tried crawling away, but in under two seconds, she yanked me back with one hand and resumed her sweet torment. Laughter filled the room—free and unfiltered—like the most honest music we could make together in a broken world.
Finally, whether because she was satisfied or because my arms had gone limp like a rag doll's, she stopped. I lay sprawled on the couch, gasping for breath, hair a tangled mess across my face, cheeks blazing red—but my smile… wouldn't leave.
Mom looked at me with a giggle, then sat down beside the couch and brushed my hair back gently. "See? You can still laugh like that… That means you're still my little girl."
I just let out a weak sigh, laughter still laced through every breath.
Laughter filled that modest little living room, mingling with the creaks of the couch cushions and the soft glow of the evening sun streaming through the window, coloring everything in warm golden hues. Even though the world outside was still in turmoil, even though fear and uncertainty continued to shadow our days, this moment felt like a small, blessed oasis.
I lay on the sofa, my cheeks still warm, my smile still lingering. Mom just sat beside me, watching my face with eyes full of love, as if trying to burn this moment into memory.
Maybe the hard days weren't over yet. But for now, this simple happiness was enough.
I didn't know if moments like this would last or vanish like so many before…
But as long as we could still laugh together, I would hold onto it tightly.