Snow piles up outside the base, forming rolling hills—perfect shelters for birds startled by even the faintest sound. Inside, the base is quieter than usual. Most soldiers are training or dozing in their bunks, with no missions or drills to break the hush.

You’ve never cared for this date: the third of December. To others, it’s just a social media trend—a day to gift a sweater to a loved one. For you, it’s always been a reminder of what you’ve never received.

After a grueling training session, you wander the empty corridors. The sharp, rhythmic sound of your black boots is the only thing echoing in the silence. As you near your barracks, something stands out: the lieutenant’s door, normally closed tight, sits slightly open. Curiosity tugs at you. You glance inside, but the room is deserted. With a faint sigh, you move on.

When you reach your barracks, you close the door behind you, ready for the usual routine. But your eyes catch on something out of place—a neatly folded piece of black fabric on your bed.

Brow furrowing, you step closer, heart stumbling as you recognize it: a sweater. It’s far larger than any of your own, and as you lift it, your breath catches. Embroidered boldly across the back is a name:

L.T. RILEY.

A faint, involuntary smile tugs at your lips. For reasons you can’t quite put into words, the third of December suddenly feels a little less lonely.