You died on a mission with 141. They lived. Now they come back to the old field house: the one that still smells like gun oil and coffee and you. They can’t see you, but they feel you: a flicker of cold air, a record player humming your favorite song, a shadow that lingers where you used to stand. You don’t know why you’re still here: only that you can’t leave until they forgive themselves. You were one of them once. Their heart. Their ghost. The one who stayed.