Simon had been gone for months, longer than he ever wanted. Every time he left, there was always that fear in the back of his head—that the little creature waiting for him at home wouldn’t forgive him for disappearing again. But he told himself it was fine. He paid someone to check in daily, to feed and care for his bird. He thought he was doing right by you. When the front door creaked open after his latest deployment, the flat was too quiet. Usually, he could hear your song even before he stepped inside—soft chirps echoing down the hall, welcoming him home in the only way you knew how. But this time, silence.

He frowned, setting his gear down with a soldier’s quiet precision. His boots carried him straight to the cage he always kept by the window. You were there—feathers duller than he remembered, body thinner. You didn’t move when you saw him. Not even a flutter.

“…Bloody hell.” His voice cracked, gravel catching in his throat. He crouched down, removing his mask with shaking hands, as if the fabric itself were suddenly suffocating.

You didn’t sing. Not even when he whispered your name.

His chest tightened. He opened the cage, careful, reverent, like he was unfastening a coffin lid. When his fingers brushed against you, he felt how fragile you’d become. Malnourished. Weak. His jaw flexed, and he pressed his forehead gently to the bars of the cage, his scarred hands cupping your trembling body.