**The Weight of Forgotten Choices**

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 had never considered herself susceptible to nightmares. A life filled with high-octane pursuits and dangerous missions as a gunsmith and bounty hunter had numbed her to the creepiness that lurked in others' dreams. Yet, the past three nights, she found herself trapped in a haunting cycle, each iteration more vivid than the last—a shadowy memory draped in the haunting opulence of a memory long buried. In her dream, she was back in Kabul, a place she had fought with honor as a Marine. The streets, once vibrant and filled with life, now resonated with an unsettling silence. Dust rose from the cracked pavement, and the sun hung high above, casting a harsh glare on the scene before her. The sound of distant gunfire whispered at the edges of her consciousness, pulling her deeper into the belly of her own fears. The scent of burning metal and gunpowder filled her nostrils, but it was the haunting innocence of a young boy that anchored her. Every night at the same hour, she would see him—a small figure dressed in tattered clothes, staring down at his feet, his small hands clasped together as if holding a secret too heavy to bear. At first, she thought he was just a ghost of war, a casualty of the conflict she had fought in. But as the dreams repeated, and the weight of familiarity crept into her chest, she realized he represented something much bigger, much deeper—a part of her soul she'd long ago buried beneath layers of bravado and denial. The boy would glance up at her, and every time, his gaze felt piercing—nothing like the gentle eyes of other children she had encountered. Instead, there was a gravity that anchored them, pulling her into its depths. In those eyes, she saw her own fears reflected back; she saw regret, loss, and the consequences of choices made in the heat of youth. He was, in truth, her son—the child she had held once, cradled in her arms before being forced to let him go. The memory, painful as a fresh wound, enveloped her each time she saw him. Rally’s high school years had been a whirlwind of reckless passion, fierce dreams, and, inevitably, heartbreak. When she had discovered she was pregnant, it felt like the world was crashing down. Her conservative, overbearing parents had insisted she give the baby up—“for her future,” they said, and Rally, wanting to please them, acquiesced. But every night in that dream, as she walked through the sun-baked streets, that choice returned to haunt her. Despair tinged with guilt wrapped around her heart like barbed wire. Each time she reached for the boy, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving her with nothing but echoes of laughter she could no longer remember. On the fourth night, Rally woke in a cold sweat, the pulse racing in her ears as if she had just come back from another mission. The dreams weren’t just haunting her anymore; they were reaching into the living world and stirring feelings long buried. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring into the dimness of her apartment, clutching the blankets like a lifeline as the memories washed over her. “I need to face this,” she murmured, resolved to find a way to confront the pain that loomed like a dark cloud over her heart. That night, instead of sleep, she poured herself into her work at the shop, rebuilding and customizing weapons. Her shop was her sanctuary, a place where metal met fire and dreams could be forged into reality. The sound of the tools cut through the silence, grounding her as she worked. Each piece she crafted became a meditation—a way to transform that guilt into something else, something tangible. Yet, at the core of her being, the boy lingered. Rally’s resolve was strong, but the shadows cast by the past felt heavy and impenetrable. Late into the night, while oiling a fine firearm, an idea sparked, as bright as the flames she worked in. She would return to Afghanistan—her unfinished business lay among the ruins of dreams lost. Days later, with her mind made up, she reorganized her plans. This wouldn’t be a mission of the reckless kind; it would be a journey of seeking, of understanding what had spiraled so far out of reach. She reached out to her contacts, arranging a return to Kabul—not as a soldier but as a seeker of closure and truth. When she found herself back in Kabul, the air was thick with memories that clung to her just as he did in her dreams. It was surreal, as if she were caught in a living tapestry of what was and what could have been. She wandered the streets, her heart pounding with anticipation and anxiety as she retraced her steps from the dream world. Hours melded into days, and just as it had happened in her dreams, she found him. The young boy stood by a street vendor selling brightly colored snacks, the sun reflecting off his hair, illuminating his face like an angel’s. Fear gripped her, paralyzing her for a moment, but she stepped forward. “Hey,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, trembling as she reached out. He turned, his eyes meeting hers. They were familiar yet so extraordinarily foreign at the same time. In that moment, soul recognition passed between them. She felt everything she had lost, everything he had become, and all the choices she wished could have been altered. Time seemed to dissolve, the chaos of the world around them fading until it was just the two of them. “I’m sorry,” her voice cracked, raw with emotion. “I’m so sorry.” With that simple admission, she found a thread of healing, a chance to stitch together the pieces that had long felt broken beyond repair. No longer just a boy from her dreams, he was real and, miraculously, he smiled back at her—a sign of forgiveness unasked for. In that bustling street in Kabul, amidst the noise and life, Rally discovered herself again—battered, yes, and marked by choices that had shaped her. But, standing face to face with the boy who had haunted her nights, she felt the burdens of grief begin to lift, leaving behind the delicate threads of forgiveness. Their story had still to be written, and this time, she would ensure it was one of redemption.