Emmanuel stared at the sky, searching for stars hidden behind the haze of dust and jet fuel.
"She's still out there."
"We know," Dahiru said. "And we'll find her."
Emmanuel nodded faintly, his breath thin. The world began to blur at the edges. He turned, gripping the stretcher's side.
Then his legs buckled.
There was no warning—just a sharp, sudden pain in his chest like fire folding in on itself. He dropped to one knee, vision tunneling. Medics surged forward.
"Get him on the stretcher—now!"
A medic's voice shouted, "He's coding—no, wait—pulse erratic!"
Beneath his ribs, the shrapnel—long hidden and undetected—had shifted. The tiny piece of metal had been slowly inching toward his heart, and now it was pressing dangerously against the left side of the pericardium.
Dahiru gripped his shoulder as they lifted him. "You fight, boy. You hear me? You don't stop now."
The C-130 Hercules loomed ahead, its engines already screaming, the ramp yawning open into red-lit shadows.
Emmanuel's fist clenched around Amina's letter as they wheeled him into the bird.
He didn't look back.
He closed his eyes.
The engines roared.
He would heal.
And then he would return.
Because Amina was still out there.
And he hadn't finished fighting for her.
The C-130 Hercules landed with a dull screech on the tarmac at Ramstein Air Base. Inside, Emmanuel lay strapped to a stretcher, swaddled in bandages and barely breathing. The cold metal floor vibrated beneath him, and every jolt of the wheels sent a tremor through his chest, where the shrapnel still sat, cruel and unmoved.
The medics surrounded him with cool efficiency.
"He's unstable. Vitals dropping."
"Foreign object near the pericardium."
"Possible lung collapse. Prepare for thoracic surgery at Landstuhl."
The words swam through the fog of his consciousness. Pain anchored him to the present, but his mind was already elsewhere—receding into warmth, memory, and the sound of wind stirring dry leaves under northern skies.
---
He was twelve again, running barefoot on a dusty path in Yelwa, a quiet suburb in Bauchi State. The sun baked the ochre-colored roads, and the breeze carried the smell of roasted maize and smoke from the evening cookfires. Laughter drifted from nearby compounds, children's voices echoing in the dusk.
And there she was—Amina.
Eleven. Calm and self-contained, always with a book in hand, her lavender hijab fluttering behind her as she walked home from school. The first time he saw her was outside the community library. She didn't look at him directly, just glanced and kept walking.
It took him three more days to find the courage to speak to her.
"You like novels?" he'd asked awkwardly, pointing to the worn Achebe book in her arms.
She didn't smile—just nodded and said, "Better than real life."
He didn't know it then, but he would chase that quiet, serious girl for months before she let him close.
They started passing notes. Then came slow, winding walks past the mango trees lining the school's back wall. She teased him for his rough Hausa. He teased her for being "too serious," and the teasing turned into laughter, and the laughter into trust.
He remembered the moment she first kissed him—behind her house, after school, as the call to prayer echoed from the nearby mosque. She leaned forward, nervous but determined. Their lips met gently, then stayed longer than either expected. When they parted, she looked away, cheeks flushed.
"You're dangerous," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because I don't know how to forget you."
---
In the present, under bright operating room lights, Emmanuel's body was fighting for breath. His left lung had collapsed during surgery. A machine beeped wildly. A surgeon cursed under her breath.
"Pressure's dropping. We need that clamp now!"
"Suction. No time for error."
"He's slipping. Push 100 of epi—now!"
But inside his mind, Emmanuel wasn't on the table anymore.
---
He was back in Yelwa, Bauchi state this time 18, Aisha also just turned 18
The room was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the only light source as the power had long since gone out. Outside, the world was still, the night as quiet as a secret. Amina sat on the edge of her bed, her feet tucked beneath her, her body wrapped in a loose wrapper, but she seemed to radiate a quiet confidence that Emmanuel had always admired.
He stood near the window, his hands resting against the cool, cracked frame. His heart thudded erratically in his chest, unsure whether it was from the heavy weight of the night or the growing tension between them. He had never been more aware of how close they were, yet how distant, as if something greater than distance stretched between them.
She spoke first, breaking the silence in her usual calm way, but Emmanuel could hear the slight tremor in her voice. "You don't have to stay," Amina said softly, not quite meeting his gaze. "If you're not ready..."
Emmanuel turned towards her, feeling his pulse spike. The look in her eyes was one of vulnerability he hadn't seen before—fear and desire, uncertainty mingling with hope. He could feel it too. The unknown. The overwhelming feeling of being on the edge of something new.
"I don't want to leave," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.
Her smile was a soft, knowing thing, a comfort in the quiet night. "Then stay."
Emmanuel crossed the room, each step measured, and stopped just in front of her. He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of her wrapper. She caught his hand gently, her fingers trembling.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted, his voice low, filled with the raw honesty he had never shared with anyone else.
Amina's smile deepened. "Neither do I," she said, the laughter in her voice a soft balm to the tension in the air. She pulled him closer, and for a moment, their foreheads rested together, their breaths coming in sync, slow and deep.
Emmanuel could feel her warmth, the soft rhythm of her heart beneath the thin fabric of her clothes. His hands hovered above her skin, unsure of the boundaries between what was innocent and what was the beginning of something more. The fire between them was undeniable, but there was tenderness, too—tenderness in the way he cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw.
"I'm scared," he murmured, his voice trembling more than he cared to admit.
"I am too," Amina replied, her hand moving to his chest, her fingers tracing the contours of his shirt. Her touch was light, hesitant, but it sent shivers down his spine.
They stared at each other for a long, silent moment, the weight of their emotions pressing in from every side. It wasn't just the closeness between them—it was the newness of what they were about to explore together. Their curiosity. Their fears. The deep, consuming love that neither of them had ever known.
"You don't have to be afraid," she whispered, almost as if trying to reassure herself more than him. "I'm here. We're here."
The sound of his heartbeat seemed to fill the room. Emmanuel leaned in, his lips brushing against hers for the first time, light and tentative. It was different this time—slower, more deliberate. He felt her pulse beneath his lips, and it steadied him. She kissed him back, her hands moving to his shoulders, pulling him closer. He could taste the sweetness of her breath, the nervousness in every movement, and something else—something more intimate, a quiet surrender to the unknown.
Her hands slid down his chest, her fingers pressing gently, exploring the fabric of his shirt as if learning the contours of his body. Emmanuel's breath hitched as he responded, his hands hesitating before finally touching the curve of her waist, feeling the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. It was as if the entire world had narrowed to this one moment, and nothing else mattered.
He broke the kiss, his voice a soft murmur. "Are you sure?"
Amina nodded, her eyes dark with trust and desire. "Yes," she whispered. "I've never been more sure of anything."
The air around them felt electric, charged with the weight of their emotions. Emmanuel moved slowly, his fingers trembling as he slid the fabric of her wrapper down her shoulders. Her breath quickened, but she didn't pull away. She watched him, her gaze steady, her body warm under his touch.
There was no rush—no urgency in their movements. Everything felt new, as if they were both learning how to touch, how to be with one another in a way neither of them had ever experienced. Emmanuel traced the line of her collarbone with his lips, tasting the salty sweetness of her skin. She shivered beneath him, her hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer, her body pressing into his.
Each movement was tentative, but full of hunger. Her hands slid beneath his shirt, feeling the taut muscles of his chest, and he responded, his hands following the path of her curves, memorizing the soft, delicate lines of her body.
It wasn't just the passion that coursed between them—it was the trust. The shared vulnerability. The gentle exploration of something they had both only ever dreamed of, something that was now unfolding in real time.
Emmanuel pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, his hands trembling as he traced the outline of her face. "Amina... I'm not ready for this... but I want to be with you. I want to be the one you trust."
Her eyes softened, her fingers gently caressing his face. "And I trust you," she whispered. "I always have."
And with that, they moved together again, slower now, guided by the simple truth that they were both discovering each other—not just physically, but emotionally. Their kisses deepened, slow and languid, their bodies learning how to move with each other. It wasn't just the pleasure of the physical—it was the sacredness of the moment, the vulnerability, the intimacy they shared. It was the discovery of something new, something shared, something only they could truly understand.
---
The night continued to unfold, each moment steeped in emotion, desire, and an unspoken promise of something deeper between them. And when they finally lay together, their bodies entwined, neither could say where one began and the other ended. They were no longer two young souls afraid of the unknown—they were simply two hearts, full of passion, full of trust, fully alive in each other's arms.
---
Back in Germany, his body twitched violently as air returned to his lungs. The tube in his side gurgled. Monitors steadied.
"He's stabilizing."
"Vitals climbing. Good response."
"We've got him back."
---
Three weeks later.
Morning filtered into the quiet room at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, turning the walls pale gold. Emmanuel stirred for the first time in days.
He felt weightless and heavy all at once. Something pressed against his ribs. A drain. Bandages. Oxygen. Pain bloomed behind his breastbone. His mouth was dry. His eyes barely opened.
A soft voice hummed from the corner. A figure moved gracefully around the bed.
Nurse Astrid.
Tall. Pale hair pulled into a neat bun. Her blue scrubs crinkled as she moved between machines and IV stands. She was checking charts when she noticed his eyes flickering open.
"Oh," she said, surprise giving way to a small smile. "Good morning, soldier."
He tried to speak. A rasp escaped.
She brought a cup to his lips. Water. Cool. Blessed.
"Don't try too hard," she said. "You've been in and out since the surgery. That shrapnel was closer to your heart than anyone liked."
He winced. Not from the pain.
From the memory.
"You kept saying a name," she added, adjusting the blankets. "Amina?"
His throat tightened. He nodded slightly.
Astrid's face softened. "Must be someone special. You smiled every time you said it."
He turned his head, looked at the sterile ceiling. Closed his eyes.
He was alive. Scarred. But alive.
Because somewhere in the battlefield of flesh and memory, in the fight between steel and soul—Amina had held him together.
And now he had to find his way back.
Just like he promised.