She peeled the orange slowly, hands trembling.

It was the last one—his favorite. She had saved it, untouched for weeks, tucked behind canned beans and wilted greens, waiting for him to come home.

But he wouldn’t.

The knock had come at dawn, two soldiers, hats in hands, voices thick with sorrow. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

She didn’t cry. Not then.

Now, sitting alone at the table they once shared, the smell of citrus filled the room. She brought a slice to her lips, and as the sweetness touched her tongue, the tears finally came.

And she whispered, “It tastes just like you remembered.”

The front door creaked.

Her body stiffened. A hallucination, maybe. Another ghost conjured from grief.

Footsteps—heavy, hesitant.

She turned toward the hallway, orange slice falling from her fingers.

And there he was.

Bearded, thinner, eyes sunken but unmistakably him.

“Valeria,” he choked, tears spilling. “I couldn’t tell you. They made me disappear… it was the only way. The mission—classified. I didn’t have a choice.”

She staggered to her feet, heart slamming against her ribs.

And then she ran to him.

She hit his chest with her fists before collapsing into his arms. “You let me mourn you,” she sobbed. “You let your son ask why Daddy didn’t come home.”

A soft cry echoed from the hallway. Their little boy, now three, stood in Spider-Man pajamas, rubbing his eyes.

The man dropped to his knees, arms wide open. “Hey, buddy… I’m home.”

The child didn’t run right away.

But after a breath—he did.

And as all three of them wept on the floor, the forgotten orange lay on the table, its scent still warm in the air—no longer the last, but the first of many new beginnings.