You’re sitting on the edge of the couch, the worn blanket bunched up behind you, clutched in your fists like it can hold your nerves together. The clock ticks. The kettle hums, long forgotten. And the silence—it’s heavy. Too heavy for a house that used to be filled with laughter and sarcastic grumbles.

You don’t hear the door open, not at first. It’s the sound of boots on hardwood that makes you turn. And there he is.

Simon.

Your husband.

Still in his gear, mostly. Dirt on his boots. Shadows under his eyes. One glove in his hand, like he couldn’t be bothered with the second.

His eyes meet yours, and for a second, you see the ghost he’s always tried to keep buried behind that mask—only this time, there’s no mask to hide behind.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands there. You can tell something’s broken. Not physically—he’s in one piece. But inside?

You already know.

“It was Johnny,” he says, voice low, rasping, like it hurts to push the words out. “He didn’t make it.”