The fire popped again, sending a spray of tiny orange sparks into the dark.

The old man took that as his cue and finally spoke about the last kind.

"Now… the diamond ones," he said.

This time both Manoj and Raven leaned forward at the same time.

Their shoulders almost touched.

If gold women were already goddess-like, then what in the world were diamond women?

The old man noticed their eagerness and chuckled softly.

"The diamond ones aren't much different from the gold," he said.

"But for them… you are the first man in their heart, and you are the last. No one comes before you. No one comes after you. Simple as that."

Raven's eyes widened a little. Manoj actually sat up straight for once.

The old man nodded, letting the weight of those words settle.

"These are the three types of women. Mud, gold, and diamond."

He pointed his cigarette slightly toward the sky.

"Except for the mud ones… any of the other two will make your life warm. Safe. Happy."

He stopped talking for a moment, looking into the fire like he was searching for something he once lost.

After a long breath he added, "And boys… don't get fooled by beauty. A pretty face means nothing if the heart behind it is empty. Spend time with a woman. Talk to her. Watch how she treats others. If she is worth your effort, worth your time… then marry her."

Silence spread across the campfire.

Not an awkward silence, but the kind that makes men stare at the flames and rethink their whole life.

Neither Raven nor Manoj said anything for a while.

Finally, Manoj scratched his cheek and asked, "Old man… then what kind of woman is your wife?"

The old soldier smiled slowly, like the question pulled him out of the past and wrapped him in an old warmth.

And that's where the night seemed to hold its breath, waiting for his answer and whatever memory came with it.

The old man let out a breath that carried years with it.

"My wife…" he said softly, "she's above all those categories. She isn't mud, gold, or diamond. She's a goddess. She's my whole life."

His voice didn't shake, but something gentle flickered in it, an old emotion that time hadn't managed to dull.

"After this war ends," he continued, staring into the fire like he could see the future inside the flames, "I'll buy a house and give it to my daughter. Then I'll go back to my farm. Live there with my wife. Just the two of us. That's enough for me."

His eyes shone with a mix of melancholy and quiet hope.

The kind of hope the old men hold onto like a treasure.

Manoj and Raven didn't tease or joke this time.

They both lifted their flasks and drank in silence, letting the warmth push away the cold for a moment.

After a short while, Raven stood up, brushing the snow from his cloak.

"I'm tired," he said, voice low. "Gonna sleep. See you both tomorrow."

He didn't wait for their replies, just slipped into the small tent beside the fire.

Manoj and the old man exchanged a meaningful look, one that said the boy's heart is already wandering somewhere, before settling back into quieter conversation.

Inside the tent, Raven let out a slow breath.

The dim lantern light barely lit the space, but it was warm enough compared to outside.

He leaned his back against a bag filled with weapons and clothes. Snow still clung to his boots.

He unstrapped his armor, setting the chest piece beside him.

From the inside pocket, he took out the thing he had been pretending not to think about all night.

A handkerchief.

Folded neat, soft, still carrying a faint scent he remembered too well.

He opened it slowly.

In the corner, stitched by hand, was a tiny smiling face.

And beside it, in simple letters:

Erza

The name glowed softly in the lantern light, and Raven found himself staring at it longer than he meant to.

The war felt far away for a moment.

The cold, the marching, the danger, all of it blurred.

All he could see was a quiet girl standing by the road side, handing him this handkerchief with shy eyes and the smallest smile.

Raven let the cloth rest across his palms, the stitched smile staring up at him like a tiny secret only he and the girl knew.

What the old man said about gold, diamond, mud, none of it fit her.

Not even close.

To Raven, she wasn't a type.

She wasn't a category.

She was simply… beyond him.

Something gentle and bright, something he had no right to reach for, yet couldn't stop thinking about.

Manoj didn't know any of this.

He didn't know that Raven had known her far longer than a single meeting at the estate.

He didn't know their paths had crossed again and again, each time small, simple, and unforgettable.

Raven remembered the first time clearly.

It was early morning, the temple steps covered in a thin mist.

Raven had been stationed there that day, guarding the temple grounds with nothing but routine on his mind.

Until she walked in.

She hadn't looked like a goddess because she sparkled or shined.

She had looked like one because she was peaceful.

Because she carried silence like it was a gift from the heavens.

He remembered that morning at the temple:

she walked across the quiet stone path wearing a simple white gown embroidered with tiny shiuli flowers, each petal bright and gentle, like starlight caught in cloth.

Her black hair had been tied into a neat bun, soft and tidy.

But a few loose strands had kept slipping onto her cheek, brushing her skin in the faint breeze.

Every time they fell, she tucked them back behind her ear with the back of her hand, slow, shy, almost unaware of how beautiful the gesture looked.

And around her bun sat a fresh gajra, white and fragrant, glowing faintly in the morning sun.[1]

The flowers looked like they had been woven that very hour, still alive, still breathing a soft smell that carried all the way to where Raven stood guard.

He remembered her walking past him, holding her flowers with both hands as if they were precious.

He remembered how calm she felt just standing near her, like the wind itself grew softer for her sake.

After that morning, fate seemed to place her in his path more often.

A street corner.

A market road.

A festival crowd.

Sometimes just a passing glance.

Sometimes a tiny conversation that lasted only a few breaths.

And slowly, painfully slowly, he had gathered the courage to talk to her properly.

Every word had felt like climbing a mountain, but she always smiled back, always listened.

Before he left for the northern march, she had found him.

Quietly.

No big words.

No long speech.

Just this handkerchief, pressed gently into his hands.

"For good luck," she had said.

Now, sitting alone in the tent with only the lantern light flickering above him, Raven let out a long, low sigh.

"Can I tell her how I feel?" he whispered to himself.

His voice barely carried beyond his own chest.

"Would she ever… marry me?"

The questions hung in the air like fragile glass.

He didn't know the answers.

But his heart beat faster just thinking about the possibility, and that tiny stitched smile on the cloth felt like it was cheering him on.

Raven brushed his thumb over the stitched smile, the fabric soft from being held too many times.

A small frown tugged at his brow.

"I wish I had the courage to tell her…" he murmured.

The thought of her warmed him for a moment, then slipped away just as quickly.

A blur.

A shape.

A feeling.

But not a face.

He closed his eyes and tried again, tried to picture her features, the curve of her smile, the way her eyes looked when she spoke to him.

Nothing came into focus.

It was like his mind kept fogging her image the moment he reached for it.

"Why…?" he whispered to himself.

He sighed, leaning his head back against the bag of weapons.

He knew why.

It had started the day he realized he cared for her.

The moment he understood that his feelings were not small, not passing, everything about her face became hazy, as if some part of him was too nervous, too overwhelmed to remember clearly.

He remembered her presence.

Her voice.

Her kindness.

He remembered she was beautiful, so beautiful that even the memory of her made his chest tighten.

But the details… the details escaped him every time he tried to hold onto them.

And because he couldn't remember, the hunger to see her again only grew stronger, sharper, almost painful.

Raven stared at the handkerchief again.

The tiny smiling face stitched on the corner looked so simple, yet every time he saw it, it tugged him back to her.

He wondered how she looked when she sewed it.

Did she smile while stitching the little symbol?

Did she blush when she wrote her name beside it?

His fingers closed around the cloth, holding it tight, as if he could pull her from his memories just by holding on hard enough.

He let out another quiet breath, full of longing and confusion, then whispered into the dim tent:

"I want to see her again…"

_______

A gajra is a traditional flower garland that women wear in their hair in India.

Imagine a small ring or long string made entirely of fresh, fragrant flowers, usually white jasmine.

The flowers are tied together tightly so they look soft, bright, and full.

Women wrap the gajra around their bun or braid, and it gives a sweet smell that follows them wherever they walk.

It's simple, natural, and very beautiful.

Not fancy.

Just fresh flowers and a gentle fragrance.

The kind of thing that makes someone look graceful without even trying.

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