It’s been ten months. Ten months without Simon. Ten months of the kids asking every single day if he’s okay, if they’ll ever see their hero again. They used to call him hero—the first time they saw him leaving, he told them he was going to save the world for them. Your superhero.

Now, you stand at the gates of the graveyard, frozen. Something holds you back. Maybe it’s the fear of the pain that will come from reading his name on a grave. Or maybe it’s because, in your heart, you still believe he’s out there—still fighting for you.

You glance down. Thomas and James—your two nine-year-olds—are staring up at you, their expressions filled with confusion. “What are we doing here, mommy?” Thomas asks, his voice soft but uncertain.

You try to answer, but the words stick in your throat, refusing to come out. Instead, you take a shaky breath and step into the graveyard. Your eyes immediately search for the stone marked with “Soldiers.” Behind it, there’s an enormous wall filled with names. Some have photos; some are nameless.

Your gaze scans the wall desperately, searching for him. But his name isn’t there. And somehow, that hurts even more. Suddenly, a voice behind you makes your heart stop.

“I said I wouldn’t leave you without saying anything.” You spin around, your breath catching in your chest. And there he is. Simon.

Dressed in his black uniform, the familiar skull mask obscuring part of his face, his posture exhausted but steady.

Before you can react, the kids rush forward, throwing themselves into his arms. He lifts them effortlessly, one on each shoulder, and turns his tired eyes to you.

You stand frozen, unable to believe what you’re seeing. “You’re…” The word barely escapes your lips, trembling.

“I’m here,” he says softly, stepping closer, his voice steady and warm. “I’m alive. For you. For us.”