The sun dipped below the hills, casting long shadows across the fields that stretched like a forgotten memory. José sat on the edge of the trench, the dirt under his fingers cooling as the evening breeze swept through. The faint smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air, though the battles had stopped for the day. In the distance, the silhouette of a soldier—a comrade, perhaps—was barely visible, a reminder that the war was far from over.

1992, the final year of El Salvador’s civil war. A war that had shaped him, broken him, and, in some ways, defined him. It had been more than a decade of fighting, of bloodshed, of choices that had no easy answers. He had once believed in the cause—the revolution, the idea of justice for the oppressed. But now, in the quiet moments before the ceasefire, doubt clung to him like the dust in the air.

He ran his hand over the rifle resting next to him, the metal cold against his palm. So many years spent with it, the weapon becoming a part of him, like a shadow he couldn’t escape.

"José," a voice called, breaking his reverie.

He turned to see his lieutenant approaching, his face drawn and tired, just as José felt. They had been through countless skirmishes, too many to count. But the lieutenant's eyes were softer now, less hardened. The war was nearly over, and with it, the fate of so many soldiers like him.

"We’ve been told the peace talks are close," the lieutenant said, sitting beside him in the dirt. "It’s almost finished."

José said nothing, just nodded. He wasn’t sure what to think. For years, he had fought for a dream—a dream that now seemed distant and unreal. The promise of a new El Salvador, where the poor would no longer suffer, where the powerful could no longer silence the voices of the oppressed.

But after so many deaths, so much destruction, could it truly be worth it?

"What will you do, José, when it's all over?" the lieutenant asked, his voice quieter now, a weight settling between them.

José thought for a moment, the question pulling him deeper than he wanted to go. He had fought for loyalty, for comradeship, for something greater than himself. But the faces of the dead haunted him—civilians caught in the crossfire, children, and families he never knew. His heart felt heavy, burdened by the weight of the choices he had made, choices that had led him here, to this final moment of uncertainty.

"I don't know," he finally replied, his voice a whisper. "I was told it was for something bigger than me. But now I wonder... what’s left for me?"

The lieutenant sighed. "We do what we must to survive, José. But peace... peace will be different. It’ll be strange."

José looked up at the horizon, where the sky turned from blue to purple, then to black. The stars would soon be out. They always were, even in the darkest times.

“I used to believe that after the war, things would get better,” he said, his voice distant. “That we’d be free. But now I wonder... will anything really change? After everything we've lost, is there even a place for us?”

The lieutenant didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at the ground, as though searching for words that weren’t there. Then, slowly, he stood up and offered his hand to José.

"Maybe the peace isn’t for us, José," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Maybe it’s for them. For the children who never had to carry a rifle. For the mothers who still have something to give. We did what we could, but now... now it's time to let go."

José stared at the hand, the fingers that had held a rifle in defiance, in protection, in rage. Slowly, he reached out, gripping the lieutenant's hand, feeling the strength in his fingers, the bond they shared.

For a long moment, they stood there in silence, as the weight of the years fell away like the last remnants of a storm. José closed his eyes, letting the peace seep in, as the sounds of the war that had shaped his life seemed to fade, slowly, softly, into the distance.

He wasn’t sure if peace would come easily. It never did. But in that quiet, under the fading light of the Salvadoran sky, he knew one thing—he could still hope.

Hope, even after all the loss. Hope, for a future beyond the war.

And perhaps that was all he could ever ask for.