The Quartermaster has not slept.
The candle burns low - again - and still the columns refuse to align. Numbers blur, ink bleeds into damp paper. The system must be rewritten. Everything depends on it.
But the men keep calling. The wagons break. The ledgers crumble beneath their own weight. Outside, the wind howls through torn canvas and broken morale. Men cough in their sleep, bellies hollow, eyes dim and unfocused, as if the soul itself had withdrawn for shelter elsewhere.
Each day feels the same - cold, hungry, endless.
And yet… sometimes, through the mire and misery, a miracle arrives.
A small parcel wrapped in paper, the scent of home trapped inside.
A mother’s cookies, dry and stale but still sweet.
A fiancée’s letter, pressed to the chest like a relic.
A single word of kindness, traveling farther than any supply train ever could.
The Quartermaster watches.
He sees the way the men’s faces change - the light returning, however briefly, to eyes long dulled by mud and fear.
They pass the letter around, reading aloud to those who cannot read, laughing at a child’s misspelling, or at a mother’s worried scolding. Tales of a harvest completed, a child’s first steps, a promise of a home still existing to return, that the soul’s exile is not forever.
A single cookie split six ways, the few crumbs shared between rough hands, savored as though they were gold. A letter read three times over by silent men - proof that they are not yet forgotten.
These moments keep them from breaking completely. They remind them that somewhere, life still continues - and waits for their return.
Without those small mercies, he knows, madness would spread swifter than hunger ever could.
So he gives silent thanks - not to command, nor to luck, but to the unseen hands that send these small blessings from afar.
The Quartermaster knows the people at home have little left to spare.
He can almost see them - counting coins by candlelight, choosing between bread and coal.
Worried wives trading a week’s warmth for a handful of flour.
Sickened mothers skipping many meals so their sons might taste sugar again.
Brothers and neighbors pooling scraps to bake something to send across the lines.
They could keep it - no one would blame them - yet they still give.
Not because they have plenty, but to keep hope alive where strength alone cannot.
Each parcel that reaches the front is more than a gift - it is a sacrifice, paid in hunger, in worry, in hope.
And the Quartermaster feels that weight with every package opened, every letter read aloud in the mud.
He bows his head in quiet thanks - for their faith, their endurance, their impossible kindness.
He can’t stop thinking of those packages - small lifelines in a hopeless world collapsing around them. So small, and yet so crucial. Each one buys another day of sanity, another night of endurance, another sunrise to count supplies by.
And for that - for knowing that someone still sends what little they can - the Quartermaster finds the strength to return to his work.
If the men can keep enduring, he can keep building.
The candle sputters, the wax nearly gone.
He should rest, but he won’t - not while there is light enough to see the ink.
He owes that much to those small parcels, and to the hands that sent them.
---
My heartfelt thank you!
We’ve reached 10 patrons, and passed $20 in monthly support.
That might sound small in numbers, but to me - it’s immense. Because I know how hard things are right now. Food, rent, electricity - everything costs more than it should. The world feels heavier.
And still, some of you choose to send something my way - helping a random internet person to create a game and show your support.
That means more to me than I can say.
Every bit of support is like those small parcels in the story - They don’t just fund development; they remind me that this game, this strange, grim little world we’re building, matters to someone else too.
So truly - thank you.
There have been plenty of moments when I lost motivation - when I wanted to step away or procrastinate for a while.
But then I saw your support, and it pushed me to sit back down, open the project, and keep building.
I don’t want to let you down.