Army Social Work

A single note struck the air like a ripple through silence—sharp, fleeting, and impossibly fragile.

Clink.

It lingered, trembling at the edges of Kezia’s consciousness, like a sound too faint to grasp yet impossible to ignore.

Clink.

The note rose and fell in steady repetition, each strike fading into the void before returning again, unrelenting. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from—only that it was there, resonating, unyielding, and painfully familiar.

It was the same repetitive note from none other than her father’s piano.

In a dark haze, her old house subtly came into view, the edges of the memory wavering like a mirage. The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of lanterns casting soft shadows on the wooden walls. Her father sat at the piano, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his massive, war-torn hands hovering over the keys.

Clink.

The sound repeated, simple and haunting, each strike filling the silence between them. The note wasn’t just a sound—it was a memory, a weight, a moment suspended in time, pulling her back into a past she couldn’t escape.

“Kezia,” he said, his voice low, rich, full of a strength she hadn’t realized she missed until now.

The sound shifted. The room faded, slipping away like water through her fingers. She was no longer beside him but watching from a distance, the scene unraveling like a thread coming loose. The piano remained, but its tone changed, warped, growing hollow. Her father’s face blurred, his smile fading until there was nothing left but the faint outline of his form.

The note continued, though now it sounded wrong—off-key, dissonant.

She was running now, though she didn’t know how she had gotten there. The air was thick with smoke, the ground beneath her feet uneven and treacherous. Screams echoed around her, mingling with the guttural cries of the echoes. Their distorted forms moved in the shadows, flickering between solid and mist, their tendrils reaching, searching.

Her father’s voice called out, sharp and commanding. “Kezia!”

She turned, her breath catching in her throat. He was there, standing amidst the chaos, his sword flashing in the firelight. His presence was strong, steady—a beacon in the storm. But even as she watched, she knew what would happen. She always knew. The dream was cruel like that.

“Kez…!” his words cut off, his voice swallowed by the noise.

Her legs wouldn’t move. Her body refused to obey. She could only stand there, frozen, as the echoes descended upon him. Their cries reverberated through her, shaking her to her core. She screamed his name, but the sound was swallowed by the cacophony.

The scene fractured. The colors shifted. One moment, her father was fighting, his sword cutting through the shadows. The next, he was gone, his form consumed by the echoes. She was alone, the world around her dissolving into ash.

The piano note returned, soft but relentless. It carried her back to the room—the warmth, the shadows, the quiet intimacy of that moment before the world fell apart. Her father’s face was clearer now, his eyes filled with that unshakable calm.

“Do you hear it, Kezia?” he asked, his fingers pressing the same key over and over.

“It’s just one note,” she had said, her voice younger, lighter, untouched by the weight of the years. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

He smiled, his laugh low and warm. “Everything means something. Even the smallest sound carries a weight you’ll feel long after it’s gone.”

Clink.

He pressed the note again, letting it linger in the air before turning to her with a thoughtful expression. “You know why today is special, don’t you?”

She tilted her head, curious, though her younger self already knew the answer. “It’s the Winter Solstice.”

“That’s right,” he said, his voice softening. “The Silence on Solstice. A day to pause and reflect, to honor what we have… and what we’ll lose.” He glanced out the window, where the frost had begun to creep along the edges of the glass. “The solstice reminds us that even as the light fades and the cold sets in, we carry those silences with us. They teach us, shape us.”

She frowned slightly, the gravity of his words just out of her reach. “But it’s just another day. Nothing’s really gone, is it?”

Her father chuckled, his smile tinged with a sadness she wouldn’t understand until much later. “Nothing feels gone until it is, Kezia. The solstice isn’t about what’s already lost. It’s about preparing for what will be. The stillness that comes before the storm.”

He played the note again.

Clink…

… “Kez…”

The sound of her name was faint at first, as if carried on the same note, blending into the dream’s fragile edges. It echoed like a ripple through the haze, soft and persistent, pulling her from the warmth of the memory.

Clink.

“…Kezia…”

The voice was sharper now, cutting through the piano’s fading resonance like a blade slicing through mist. The room wavered, the shadows and warmth dissolving into nothingness. She reached out instinctively, her hand grasping for the image of her father at the piano, but it was gone—just as it always was.

Her name sounded again, closer, heavier, dragging her upward, away from the smoke, the ash, and the fragments of what was.

Kezia’s eyes snapped open. Cold air bit at her skin. She was no longer in her old house, no longer lost in the echoes of her past. Bridgeroy’s voice broke through the remnants of the dream, firm and steady.

“Kezia,” he repeated, his hand on her shoulder. His expression was sharp, his presence grounding. 

And just like that, the dream was gone, leaving only the weight of its absence and the faint memory of a single, resonant note.