You remembered the day your world ended.

The day Price stood at your doorstep, his face unreadable, his presence alone telling you everything before he even spoke. You remembered the weight of Ghost’s mask as he placed it in your hands, the cold metal of his dog tags slipping between your fingers.

You remembered the way your knees gave out. The way your scream tore through the air, raw and broken, filling the empty spaces of your home.

Your world ended the day he died. Three years of marriage—three years of love, of whispered promises and stolen moments—gone in an instant.

A year had passed since then. A year of emptiness. A year of waking up to a cold bed, of fingers absentmindedly tracing the ring still wrapped around your finger. You couldn’t take it off. You couldn’t move on. His mask remained hidden in your drawer, untouched, as if touching it would make the pain unbearable.

And then today, your sister called. Insisting—no, begging—to meet. There was something in her voice, something frantic. Something that made your chest tighten.

You didn’t want to go. But eventually, you gave in.

Now, standing alone beneath the glow of a streetlamp in the quiet park, you checked your phone. Ten minutes had passed. Then fifteen. No sign of her. No message.

You sighed, beginning to type, fingers hovering over the screen. And then you heard it.

"Waiting for someone?"

Your breath caught.

That voice.

That voice that haunted your dreams, the one you thought you’d never hear again. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t—

And then you felt him.

A hand at your waist. The warmth of breath against your neck.

You turned, your heart slamming against your ribs. And there he was.

Ghost.

Your husband. Alive.