What Remains

What Remains
Once, a family lived in this small house—a mother, a father, and three children. Then, a bomb fell, and in an instant, they were gone.
The funeral was held at night, attended by only a handful of mourners. I was there, standing guard—my battalion was responsible for this troubled area. Four coffins were lowered into the ground. When the ceremony ended and the last of the mourners dispersed, I filed my report.
Only after we were discharged from service did the deputy brigade commander call me with a question I couldn’t answer.
"There were five people in that house," he said. "But you reported four coffins. Where is the fifth family member?"
A year later, my battalion was deployed to the same area. The unanswered question still lingered in my mind.
I found the house—or what was left of it. The entire village was in ruins, every home shattered and abandoned. I gathered some soldiers and a D9 Caterpillar to clear the rubble, hoping to finally uncover the truth.
After an hour, we found her.
A skeleton, a skull, draped in what had once been a golden dress. From that tattered fabric, I understood—it was the mother. I didn’t know her name. I had no idea what she looked like in life. But as I stood there, staring at her remains, a single thought filled my mind:
Is this all that’s left?
We buried her in the small local cemetery. No one in my unit understood why I had been so determined to return to that house.
I reported to the deputy brigade commander that I had found the fifth body and laid her to rest. But he only looked at me, confusion in his eyes.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he said.
I froze.
I had carried this question for a year, unearthed the remains with my own hands, and yet—he had no memory of it? No report, no missing body, nothing.
That night, as I lay awake in my tent, a thought gnawed at me.
If no one remembered her, if no one even knew she was missing… had she ever existed at all?