Before climbing into the car, he gripped my hand, looking back with every step. "Savvy, wait for me. When I get back, you'll pick up your rifle again. You'll be the star of Fort Valor once more. I won't let anyone ever bully you again."
I offered a faint smile but said nothing.
I watched until the vehicle vanished over the horizon.
Then I doubled over. My hand flew to my mouth, but it couldn't stop the warm, metallic torrent gushing between my fingers.
The doctor had warned me: when the tumor ruptures, the clock stops.
Strange.
As I collapsed onto the pavement, fear didn't come. Instead, a peculiar calm settled in.
Memories washed over me—fragmented, bittersweet.
Him bringing me home from the cold martyrs' cemetery, his large hands clumsy as he tied my pigtails.
My first live-fire exercise. I missed the target; he scolded me sternly, then snuck milk candy into my pocket.
The nights I burned with fever. He stayed by my bedside, holding my hand, whispering over and over, "Savvy, don't be afraid. Uncle is here."
He used to say, Our Savvy deserves the best the world has to offer.
Tears mixed with the blood on my cheeks.