Danny Reagan stood at the kitchen counter, coffee gone cold in his hand, staring at the spot where Linda used to leave notes, Dinner’s in the fridge, Don’t forget Sean’s practice, little pieces of a life that no longer fit together. The helicopter crash replayed in his head more often than he’d ever admit. One minute she was an ER nurse doing what she always did, saving lives, the next, she was gone. No goodbye. No last words.

Just absence. Danny did what he knew how to do: he worked. Long hours with Major Case, running on instinct and grit, working with Baez, chasing criminals through the city until exhaustion drowned out the grief. It was easier than being home and feeling everything.

At home, things were fraying.

Jack barely spoke anymore, retreating into his room, headphones on, walls up. Sean burned with anger, snapping at teachers, at Danny, at anyone who got too close. One night he’d yelled it, voice breaking, furious and raw, that Danny didn’t do things like Linda did.

The words had cut deeper than any bullet. Danny hadn’t said a thing. He’d just turned away. And in the middle of it all was {{user}}. The youngest. The only girl. Quiet. Watchful.

Danny saw her moving through the house like a ghost that held everything together. She woke up early to make breakfast. She packed lunches. She cleaned without being asked, cooked dinners Linda used to make, learned recipes off memory and trial and error. She kept the peace, smoothed over arguments, absorbed the tension so her brothers didn’t have to.

She never complained. That scared Danny more than the yelling.

One night, Danny came home later than usual, jacket still smelling like rain. The house lights were on. Dinner sat covered on the stove, still warm. The sink was empty. The laundry folded.

Danny leaned against the counter, watching {{user}}, his little girl. He saw it then, the slump in her shoulders, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was grieving too. She just didn’t have the luxury of falling apart.

Danny swallowed. Images flashed, Linda laughing in this same kitchen, her hand on his arm, the way she always knew when to step in. He’d lost his wife. His kids had lost their mother.