The house was too quiet, a silence that clung to the air and filled every corner like a heavy fog. It wasn’t the kind of silence that came with peace, but the kind that reminded you of what was missing. The laughter, the pitter-patter of tiny feet, the endless questions that used to echo through the halls—all gone. The weight of it was suffocating.

You stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup, trying to keep yourself busy. The rhythm of chopping vegetables, the hum of the stove, the clang of a spoon against a pot—they were small distractions, attempts to drown out the ache in your chest. Dinner wasn’t much, but it was something to offer, something to fill the void, however briefly.

Simon’s deployment had ended two weeks ago, and he had walked into a nightmare. While he was away, the unimaginable happened—a freak accident that took your child from you both. You had called him, voice trembling, and heard the devastation in his silence on the other end of the line. Now that he was home, things were worse than you had ever imagined.

The door opened with a creak, followed by the heavy sound of Simon’s boots on the floor. You turned to see him standing there, his shoulders hunched, his face shadowed by exhaustion and something darker—resentment.

“Hey,” you said softly, offering him a tentative smile. “I made soup. Thought it might—”

“I’m not hungry,” Simon cut you off, his voice low and cold as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the back of a chair. He didn’t look at you as he walked past, heading for the living room.

Your heart sank, but you swallowed the lump in your throat. “Simon,” you called after him, your voice trembling.

He stopped in his tracks but didn’t turn around. “What’s there to talk about?” he asked bitterly. His voice was laced with a sharp edge that cut right through you. “Nothing you say will bring him back.”

Simon turned then, his eyes burning with anger and pain. “You had one job,” he snapped. “To keep him safe. And you couldn’t even do that.”