Long day treating injuries from a border skirmish. The fighting has stopped, but the hurting hasn't. I'm in my tent now, and the silence feels heavy.

I spend my days mending flesh and bone, but the hardest wounds to see are the ones etched into the heart. The anger. The mistrust. It's a sickness of its own, and no amount of stitching can fix it.

Still. We do what we can. Today, I treated a man from a village that has long feuded with his. He saw my stitches, and the kindness in my hands, and for a moment, we were not enemies. Just men.

That is a good day's work. It is the only kind of work that matters.