**The Ghosts of Kabul**

Prompt: Gunsmith cats fanfiction rally has the same nightmare for the third night in a row in the dream she’s walking through Kabul when she was a marine in Afghanistan when she sees a young boy after a few nights of this rally realizes who the boy represents the baby boy her son who she had when she was a senior in high school who she had been forced to give up by her parents

Rally Vincent awoke with a start, heart racing as if she had just stumbled out of danger. But there was no enemy here, only the fading remnants of the dream that haunted her night after night. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and dust, memories of a past she couldn’t quite escape. For three nights in a row, the dream was the same—she walked through the bustling streets of Kabul, dressed in her Marine fatigues, blending in yet feeling so completely apart from the chaos surrounding her. The city was alive with the chatter of voices, the rapid movement of people, and an underlying tension that always made her on edge. She remembered the patrols, the adrenaline, the fear; the mission to protect and serve. But this time, she focused on something else. As she moved deeper into the heart of the city, she felt an inexplicable pull, as if the air itself was beckoning her. Through the winding alleyways and past colorful markets, she felt a familiar bout of anxiety creeping in, but it was overlaid with an uncanny, hopeful thrill. It was then that she spotted him—a child standing by a half-filled cart, eyes wide with innocence amidst the turmoil of his surroundings. The boy was no older than six, with tousled hair and an expression that mirrored the gentle curiosity of a flower blooming in the harshest of deserts. Rally felt a jolt of recognition that twisted her gut. He wasn’t just any boy; he was the embodiment of something she had lost long before her time as a Marine. A child long gone from her life, a son she had never held but, in her heart, had carried always. She'd buried the memory as deep as she could, yet like a deep-rooted weed, it had resurfaced in her dreams—her baby boy, taken from her at barely seventeen by parents who had made decisions for her, for a life that never seemed truly her own. That decision had dictated her path, shaped her into the woman she was now—fearless, hardened, yet fragile inside. As she approached the boy, time slowed. The echoes of gunfire and shouting faded into the background as she knelt down to his level. “What’s your name, little one?” she asked, her voice softer than a whisper. He looked up at her, eyes sparkling like the distant stars only visible in the clear Afghan night. “Aamir,” he replied, his voice a hushed melody. Her heart clenched in her chest. Aamir. A name she had almost forgotten, a name she had once envisioned for her son. Rally's fingers, calloused and battle-worn, hovered near the boy’s cheek, but she withdrew them hesitantly, unsure if she would hurt him—or herself—by touching the memory reignited in her heart. “In my dreams, you take me to all the best places,” he said, with a smile illuminating his tiny face. “But sometimes I get scared. There’s a darkness that comes. Can you make it go away?” Those words pricked at her heart. She wanted to scream that she couldn’t even protect herself from her own nightmares, let alone this innocent child standing before her. “Aamir, I’m sorry,” she whispered, throat tight with suppressed emotion. “I can’t… I can’t keep you safe.” With that, the dream began to unravel, the streets of Kabul warping like smoke in the wind. She reached out to grab him, to hold onto this figment of her mind, but her fingers passed through him as though he were mist. The darkness loomed closer, overshadowing the market stalls, swallowing up the brightness like a ravenous beast. And as she felt the encroaching dread, she woke once more in the confines of her bedroom. Staring at the ceiling, Rally felt tears prick at her eyes, frustration vying with sorrow. It had been nearly two decades since her life turned on a dime, and yet, here she was, shackled to the past. Three nights in a row, and it was becoming unbearable. Each dream was more vivid than the last, eliciting feelings she desperately wished she could forget but couldn’t. By the fourth night, Rally made a decision. She couldn’t avoid this anymore. The memory of Aamir was like a ghost that lurked just outside her reach, and it was time to confront it. She enlisted the help of her friends—Becky and Minnie—fellow gunsmiths and family in their own right. They were her anchor, the ones who would hold her together while she navigated this tempest brewing in her heart. Over coffee and laughter, she shared her story, tears slipping down her cheeks as she recounted the visions of Kabul and the little boy. As her words flowed, she could almost feel the weight lifting, if only just a fraction. “Maybe it’s time to forgive yourself,” Becky suggested thoughtfully, her eyes empathetic. “You did what you had to do. Our pasts don’t define who we are now.” Minnie nodded in agreement. “You’ve become a protector in other ways. You’ve built your life to stand against what threatened you. Maybe Aamir is merely a reminder of what you’ve survived.” That night, Rally dreamed again, perhaps for the last time. The streets of Kabul were once more alive around her, and there was Aamir—little, hopeful, and radiant in the chaos. But this time, she walked toward him, unafraid. “I’m here,” she said, her voice steady. They locked eyes, and in that moment, she felt a wave of understanding wash over her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be your mother,” she confessed, “but I will always love you.” Aamir’s smile was pure and full of warmth. “Then you are my mother,” he said, ephemeral yet real, and as the darkness began to fade, she reached for him, allowing herself to embrace the memory fully without fear. Together they walked toward the light, into a horizon painted with infinite possibilities, and Rally understood at last—she was both the guardian and the free spirit, unbound and finally whole.