“But that victory felt no different from curling up in an old armchair with a faded blanket and reading my little sister a bedtime story. It felt no different from a perfect pot of coffee, or a warm croissant fresh from the bakery. And so even when there’s no big joy—even when it feels like we’ll never leave this trench alive—there’s still the small joy. A sunset, a flask of tea. Your hand in mine.”
