Lilith
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 10: Peace
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
FEBRUARY 2017
The apartment was small but comfortable—two bedrooms in a renovated rowhouse in Baltimore’s Federal Hill neighborhood, twenty minutes from Johns Hopkins Hospital where David worked. Shira stood in the living room, surrounded by boxes she’d been unpacking for three days, and felt completely disoriented.
No formation at 0600. No weapons to clean. No mission briefings. No one depending on her to keep them alive.
Just civilian life, whatever that meant.
David found her standing there, staring at a box labeled “PERSONAL,” looking lost.
“You okay?”
“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “I’ve had a schedule every day since I was eighteen. Now I just ... have time.”
“That’s called freedom. Most people like it.” He put his arms around her. “Give yourself time to adjust. You’ve been out of the Army for three weeks. You don’t have to figure everything out today.”
“What did you do? When you finished residency?”
“I was exhausted and overwhelmed, so I took two months off, slept late, read books, traveled. Gave my brain time to reset.” He kissed her forehead. “You’ve earned that too. Just breathe for a while.”
But Shira didn’t know how to “just breathe.” She’d been in motion for seventeen years.
MARCH 2017 - ADJUSTMENT
The first month was hard.
She’d wake at 0530 by habit, then remember she had nowhere to be. She’d check her phone for mission updates that weren’t coming. She’d find herself calculating ranges to buildings across the street, reading wind patterns, identifying high-ground positions—all reflexive, all pointless now.
Some days were better than others.
She registered for classes at University of Maryland using her GI Bill—psychology courses, thinking she might want to work with veterans eventually. But sitting in lectures with 19-year-olds felt surreal. She was 24 but felt decades older.
David worked long hours at the hospital, leaving her alone most days. She’d run, work out at the gym, read, try to feel normal. But normal felt wrong. She’d been a warrior so long, peace felt like failure.
One night, David came home to find her cleaning the CheyTac—which she’d set up on a bipod in the spare bedroom, aiming at nothing.
“Shira...”
“I know. I just needed to touch it. To remember.”
He sat beside her. “Are you okay? Really?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know who I am without the mission. Without the rifle. Without people depending on me.” She looked at him, eyes bright. “What if I’m not good at anything else?”
“Then we’ll figure it out together. But Shira, you’re 24 years old. You have time to become whoever you want to be. You’re not defined by those 96 kills. You’re not just a weapon.”
“Then what am I?”
“You’re Shira Abrams. Woman, student, partner, survivor. Someone who fought for years and earned the right to rest.” He took her hands. “Give yourself permission to not be a warrior anymore.”
It was the permission she needed but couldn’t give herself.
APRIL 2017 - FINDING PURPOSE
A counselor at the VA—a former Marine who’d deployed to Iraq—told her what she was experiencing had a name: identity crisis.
“You’ve been in warrior mode since you were a kid,” he explained. “Military, combat, constant operations. Now that structure is gone. You feel untethered.”
“How do I fix it?”
“You don’t fix it. You build something new. Find purpose beyond war. For some veterans, it’s career. For others, family. For some, service in different ways.” He paused. “What do you care about?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“Yes, you do. Think about it.”
She did think about it. And realized: she cared about the Rangers. About soldiers deploying into harm’s way. About people learning to survive.
Maybe she couldn’t protect them with a rifle anymore, but there were other ways to help.
She started volunteering at a veterans’ center in Baltimore—helping with paperwork, benefits claims, job placement. Small things, but they mattered. She met other veterans struggling with transition, and found she could help. She understood their language, their experiences, their sense of displacement.
One veteran—a former Army sergeant who’d done three tours in Afghanistan—told her, “You get it. Most people don’t, but you do.”
“I was there too. Different unit, but same war.”
“What’d you do?”
“Sniper. Overwatch for Rangers.”
He studied her. “Wait. Are you Lilith? The one with the Silver Star? The Chinook ambush?”
She was surprised anyone knew. “Yes.”
“Holy shit. You’re a legend. We heard stories about you in Kandahar. The female sniper who could hit targets from over a mile.” He shook his head in amazement. “What are you doing working at a veterans’ center?”
“Same thing you’re doing. Trying to figure out what comes after war.”
“Fair enough. But you know what? The fact that someone like you is here, struggling like the rest of us—that’s helpful. Makes me feel less broken.”
“You’re not broken. Neither am I. We’re just adjusting.”
“Is it working?”
“I’m starting to think it might.”
MAY 2017 - FAMILY
Her parents visited from Virginia—ninety minutes down I-95, close enough for regular visits now.
Miriam cried when she saw the apartment. “You have a real home. Not a barracks. Not a FOB. A home.”
Simon walked through slowly, leaning on his cane, taking everything in. He stopped at the spare bedroom where Shira had set up a small office—desk, bookshelves, and yes, the CheyTac case in the corner.
“You kept the rifle.”
“Couldn’t leave it behind.”
“Do you shoot it?”
“No. There’s a range, but I haven’t gone. I just ... I needed to have it.”
Simon nodded slowly. “I kept my Mossad gear for years after I retired. Knife, tactical equipment, documents I shouldn’t have taken. Miriam wanted me to throw it all away, but I couldn’t. It was proof I’d been something.” He looked at her. “Eventually, I realized I didn’t need proof. The memories were enough.”
“Are you saying I should get rid of the rifle?”
“No. I’m saying when you’re ready, you will. Or you won’t. Either way is fine.” He paused. “You did what I trained you to do—you survived. Now you get to do what I couldn’t: choose peace while you’re still young enough to build a real life.”
They had dinner together—just family, no war stories, no discussions of missions or kills. Miriam talked about her garden. Simon talked about his consulting work winding down. Shira talked about her classes, the veterans’ center, her life with David.
Normal conversation. Family conversation.
It felt good.
When they left, Miriam hugged her tightly. “I have my daughter back. Not the soldier. My daughter.”
“I’m both, Ima. I’ll always be both.”
“I know. But now you’re more than just the warrior. That’s all I wanted.”
JUNE 2017 - THE PROPOSAL
David took her to Annapolis for the weekend—historic city, sailing, good restaurants. They walked along the waterfront on Saturday evening, the sun setting over the Chesapeake Bay.
“I have something to ask you,” he said, stopping at a quiet spot overlooking the water.
“Okay...”
He pulled out a small box. “Shira Abrams, I’ve loved you since Afghanistan. I’ve watched you fight, survive, struggle, and grow. You’re the strongest person I know—not because you can shoot from a mile away, but because you chose to live when you could have stayed a warrior forever.” He opened the box, revealing a simple diamond ring. “I want to spend my life with you. Will you marry me?”
She looked at the ring, at David, at the peaceful water behind him.
A year ago, she’d been in Afghanistan, counting kills and wondering if she’d survive. Now she was here, being asked to build a future.
“Yes,” she said, tears surprising her. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
He slipped the ring on her finger, and they kissed as the sun set over the bay.
In that moment, Shira felt something she hadn’t felt in years: hope for a future that wasn’t about war.
AUGUST 2017 - THE WEDDING
They kept it small—family and close friends, ceremony at a small chapel in Baltimore, reception at a restaurant afterward.
Simon walked her down the aisle, moving slowly with his cane but standing straight and proud. Miriam cried through the entire ceremony. David’s parents welcomed her warmly, treating her like the daughter they’d never had.
Staff Sergeant Warren attended, along with Captain Reyes from Afghanistan and a few other military friends. They wore dress uniforms, looking sharp and formal.
But most guests were civilians—David’s colleagues from Johns Hopkins, Shira’s classmates from university, friends from the veterans’ center. People who knew her as Shira, not Lilith.
The ceremony was traditional, brief. When the officiant said, “You may kiss the bride,” David did, and the small gathering applauded.
At the reception, Warren approached her. “You look happy, Abrams. Really happy.”
“I am, Staff Sergeant. For the first time in years, I’m actually happy.”
“Good. You earned it.” He handed her a card. “From the current Sniper School class. They heard their instructor was getting married.”
Inside was a card signed by forty students she’d never met:
To Staff Sergeant Abrams,
Thank you for showing us what’s possible.
Congratulations on your wedding and your new life.
—Class 03-17
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