He counted the dead by their boots, not their names.
Their mothers would never pronounce them the same.
Forty-three soldiers. A child with no shoes.
He smoked while perfecting the art of bad news.

He walked until the road forgot his feet.
A column passed him, shuffling through the heat.
One looked at him. He looked back, cold and gray.
He signed their death like any other day.

His wife stopped asking where he went at night.
His daughter flinched whenever he held her tight.
His hands smelled of metal. No one would say.
Home learned to be quiet in a careful way.

The war ended with singing and lights in the square.
He watched from a window like he wasn’t there.
His daughter ran outside to join the crowd.
She didn’t wave to him. He was almost proud.

A boy lay flat beside the garden wall.
He played at dying, waiting for the call.
He saw the soldier watching. Grinned and stood.
“I got three enemies—killed them like you would.”

He didn’t answer. Turned and walked inside.
The boy kept playing: shoot, kill, hide.
He closed the shutters. Poured himself a drink.
He sat until the room began to sink.

His hands began to shake around the glass.
The room was still. The shaking wouldn’t pass.
He gripped the table. Steadied. Breathed. And then
His men shuffled through the room again.

His wife came down and stood without a word.
She’d lived with this for years. She’d seen and heard.
She didn’t touch him. Threw his drink away.
They didn’t speak. What was there left to say?

He stood at last. The chair scraped on the floor.
He walked past her and through the open door.
The street was pale. The last lamp flickered out.
His shadow vanished down an unknown route.

The column shuffled on. He joined the count.
No one said his name or looked about.
Forty-four soldiers. A child with no shoes.
The dead don’t speak. The dead don’t get to choose.