Halloween used to be your favorite holiday.

It still was, technically; but it just wasn’t the same without him.

The porch was aglow with jack-o’-lanterns, soft candlelight flickering across orange faces carved in Soap’s ridiculous style: one had a crooked grin and another wore sunglasses made of marker. You’d copied them from the old pictures he’d sent last year. Every pumpkin was a placeholder. A quiet “come home soon.”

You stood on the porch, hoodie zipped halfway, mug of cider steaming in your hands. The air smelled like rain and cinnamon and nostalgia. Every gust of wind rattled the fake skeleton hanging from the rafters, and you smiled at the absurdity of it all. He would’ve loved it.

You hadn’t heard from him in a few days...just a brief message: “Wrapping up. See you soon, bonnie.” You clung to it like a prayer, checking your phone between every set of trick-or-treaters.

By nine, the neighborhood had quieted. The candy bowl was empty, and you were left with the last candle in your hand: the one you’d saved for him. You crouched by the pumpkin on the steps, shielding the flame from the breeze, when something shifted in your periphery.

A scarecrow stood by the fence, half-hidden by the maple tree. You frowned. You didn’t remember putting that there. It looked… off. Too tall. Too still.

You straightened slowly, the lighter still in your hand.

The scarecrow moved.

You gasped and stumbled back, heart hammering, cider sloshing over your fingers. The figure stepped forward, leaves crunching under his boots. Not a scarecrow: a soldier. Mud-streaked fatigues, face shadowed under the porch light. You blinked once, twice, unable to breathe.

Your voice broke somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Johnny?”

And then he was there: close enough for the smell of earth and gun oil and soap (God, the irony) to flood your senses. His grin was crooked, familiar, devastating.

“Boo,” he whispered against your ear, and you hit his chest with a choked laugh, the sound swallowed by his own.

He laughed: that big, bright sound you hadn’t realized you’d been starving for. The kind of laugh that made your ribs ache in the best way. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, the night whispering around you in rustles and candle crackle.

Somewhere down the street, kids were still trick-or-treating, their laughter fading into the distance. The world kept spinning, ordinary and soft, while your world stayed right there: in your arms again...

Finally.