Station 1

Chapter 1 The Story of a Soldier (2)

Part 2: The Call to Arms

"Some men go to war for glory. Some for country. Others simply because they have no choice."

The first sign of war was not the sound of marching boots or the sight of soldiers in the streets. It came as whispers—hushed voices in the market, urgent letters delivered under the cover of dusk, names being spoken with dread. The king had called for men, they said. The enemy was advancing.

At first, the boy thought little of it. War had always been something that happened elsewhere. A distant tragedy. A story told by elders with tired eyes. He had seen the scars on the bodies of old veterans, the way their hands trembled when they lifted a cup, the way their eyes sometimes stared beyond the present. But their stories felt unreal, as if they belonged to another time, another world.

But then the posters appeared—bold red ink against parchment, nailed to the doors of shops and taverns. All able-bodied men must serve. Then came the soldiers, men in crisp uniforms with stern faces, moving through the village like wolves among sheep. They carried lists, reading out names, knocking on doors. No one dared to refuse. No one had the choice.

His name was never supposed to be on that list.

He was the son of a carpenter, not a warrior. His hands knew the weight of a hammer, not the heft of a sword. He had built tables, chairs, and tiny wooden animals for his sister—never once had he thought of taking a life. But when the time came, there was no debate. The village was small, and every man who could stand was expected to fight.

He watched as others were taken before him—neighbors, friends, men he had known all his life. Some stood tall with false bravado, while others trembled like leaves in the wind. The town blacksmith, a man with arms as strong as iron, clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. The baker’s son, barely older than the boy himself, swallowed hard and kept his head down.

Then they came to his door.

His father, old and worn from years of labor, could not go. His younger sister was too little to understand what was happening. And his mother, with eyes lined from years of quiet suffering, did not weep when they called his name. She only gripped his hands tightly, her fingers rough with calluses, and whispered, "Come back to me."

The night before he left, silence filled their small home like a heavy fog. His father sat in his usual chair, knife in hand, whittling a piece of wood. The boy watched the shavings curl and fall to the floor, watched his father’s weathered hands move with practiced ease. When the carving was finished, his father placed it in his palm—a small wooden bird, wings outstretched as if caught in mid-flight.

"To remind you of home," his father said, his voice rough with unshed emotion.

The boy turned the carving over in his hands, running his fingers along its smooth surface. It was small enough to fit in his pocket, small enough to carry with him no matter where he went.

His sister clung to him, her tiny hands gripping his sleeve, tears streaming down her round cheeks. She had never known war. To her, he was simply going away, like he sometimes did to fetch supplies from the next village. She didn’t understand that this time, he might not come back.

"Will you be gone long?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"Not long," he lied.

That night, sleep did not come. He lay awake, listening to the soft breathing of his family, to the crackling of the dying fire. His mother had left his favorite blanket folded at the foot of his bed. His father’s tools sat untouched on the workbench, as if waiting for him to return. But by morning, he would be gone.

The sun rose, golden and indifferent, as he stood among the others who had been called. Their faces were pale, their hands clenched into fists. Some looked ahead with determination, others with fear. The village watched in silence as they were led away, marching toward a fate none of them truly understood.

He turned back once, just once, to see his family standing at the edge of the road. His mother, standing still as stone. His father, his broad shoulders slumped in a way the boy had never seen before. His little sister, clutching the wooden bird in her hands, holding it as if it were him.

The road stretched before him, long and unyielding.

And then he walked on, knowing that the boy who left that day would never return the same.