He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded, rain-smudged photograph. Aryan leaned in. It was a group of twelve soldiers, young, smiling, their arms around each other in front of a snow-capped bunker. Vihaan, twenty-five years younger, stood in the back.
Major Vihaan Rathore straightened his spine, the starched olive fabric of his uniform scratching against his neck. Outside the regimental mess, the monsoon rain hammered the earth, turning the parade ground into a mirror of mud and sky. Inside, the air was thick with silence and the ghost of whiskey.
Then, Major Vihaan Rathore raised his right hand in a sharp, crisp salute. The rain ran down his wrist, his forearm, dripping off his elbow.
He turned to face the flag, whipping wetly at half-mast for no one in particular.
"I know. It was about this ." Aryan gestured vaguely at the medals on Vihaan's chest—the Shaurya Chakra for gallantry, the Siachen glacier pin, the UN peacekeeping badge. "The… performance. The salute."
The mess doors opened. The Adjutant, a young captain with nervous eyes, stepped in. "Sir, the Guard of Honor is formed."