The house is too quiet without him.

Howard never knew how to be quiet — not with his footsteps, not with his voice, not with the way he filled every room like he was daring the world to keep up. Now his absence echoes louder than he ever did.

You sit at the small kitchen table, fingers curled around a mug that’s gone cold. His coat still hangs by the door. You haven’t had the heart to move it.

Howard was your brother, but he was also your anchor. Older by years, wiser by experience, stubborn enough to keep going when things fell apart. When your parents were gone, he stayed. When the war took everything else, he wrote every chance he could.

And now the letters have stopped.

There’s a knock at the door.

You hesitate before standing, like opening it might make things real in a way you’re not ready for.

Peggy Carter stands on the other side, hat in hand, eyes soft with something she doesn’t bother to hide.

“I thought you might be here,” she says gently.

You step aside to let her in. She takes in the space with a quiet understanding, noticing the untouched mug, the coat, the stillness.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Peggy adds. “I can just… sit.”

You nod, grateful for that more than you can say.

They pass a few moments in silence. Then, without warning, your voice breaks.

“He promised he’d come back,” you say. “He always did.”

Peggy doesn’t rush to correct you. She doesn’t offer platitudes. She just listens.

“He used to call me his ‘kid sister,’” you continue, staring at the table. “Like I was something he needed to protect. And now he’s gone, and I don’t know who I am without him.”

Your breath stutters. Tears spill before you can stop them, grief finally demanding to be felt.

Peggy moves closer, resting a hand over yours first — giving you the choice. When you lean into her, she wraps her arms around you, steady and sure.

“You don’t have to know right now,” Peggy says quietly. “Grief doesn’t ask permission. It just asks to be carried.”

You cry against her shoulder, the kind of quiet, aching sobs that come from loving someone deeply and losing them anyway. She holds you without flinching, without letting go.

Outside, the world keeps moving. Inside, time slows.

And for the first time since Howard died, you’re not facing it alone.