They said the war was over. The battles had ended, the soldiers had either returned home or been buried beneath foreign skies. But she didn’t believe it—not entirely.

  Because he hadn’t come back.

  She still remembered the night before he left. The way his arms wrapped around her, holding her close like he was trying to memorize the shape of her. The way his voice trembled slightly when he promised, “No matter what happens, I’ll come back to you.”

  She had believed him. She still did.

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  But the world was trying to convince her otherwise. His name was listed among the missing, but no body was ever found. People told her to move on, to accept that he was gone.

  She couldn’t.

  Because sometimes, when the wind whispered through the trees, she swore she could hear his voice. Because in the quiet moments, she felt the warmth of a presence just beyond her reach. Because love that strong doesn’t just disappear.

  So she made a choice.

  She would find him. Even if it meant chasing shadows, following the faintest whispers, and stepping into the unknown.

  She was the lark.

  He was the phantom.

  And she refused to believe their story was over.