You died months ago.

They never stopped coming back.

The old field house sits quiet at the edge of base: same cracked mug on the counter, same dent in the couch from where you used to sit. The Task Force calls it their “lucky spot,” but none of them say your name. Not anymore.

You linger there: not alive, not gone.

You move through the space like wind through curtains. Sometimes, they notice: a door that swings open without a draft, a song playing softly on a dead radio, cigarette smoke that curls in the shape of a memory.

Price still pours two glasses at night, one for him, one for you. Soap jokes to the empty room like he’s waiting for you to laugh back. Gaz keeps your tags in his pocket. Ghost never says a word, but you can feel when he’s near, the air thickens, like he’s daring you to show yourself.

They can’t see you. But they feel you.

And maybe that’s why you’re still here: tethered by their guilt, by love that never found its ending. You were one of them once. Their heart. Their ghost. Their unfinished story.

All you can do now is watch. Watch the world move on without you. Watch them break themselves trying to forget. Watch until one of them finally cracks, until someone whispers to the empty room,

“If you’re still here… say something.”

The lights flicker. The air goes still. And for the first time since you died...you answer.