The call came at dawn. You’d been expecting him home soon — another mission, another deployment, the same old promise of “one last op.” But this time, it wasn’t his voice on the other end of the line. It was Price’s. Low. Controlled. The kind of tone only soldiers use when the truth’s too heavy to say outright.

Simon “Ghost” Riley was gone. Killed in action alongside Sergeant Gary “Roach” Sanderson. No details. No closure. Just the words “didn’t make it out.”

You stood there, phone pressed to your ear, the world narrowing down to a ringing in your skull. The kettle still whistled behind you. Your daughter was in the living room, colouring. Your son was asking if “Dad’s plane’s home yet.”

They don’t understand why you fall quiet now when someone knocks on the door, why you still set two extra plates at the table. The house still smells like his cologne, his gear bag still sits by the door, untouched.

But the thing about Simon Riley is — men like him don’t fade easy. Even gone, his presence lingers. The echo of his voice. The weight of his hand on your shoulder. Sometimes, when the night’s too still, you swear you can hear him — that low Mancunian drawl, steady and grounding: “You’re stronger than you think, love. Keep goin’. For them.”

Some say ghosts don’t haunt people — they protect them.

And maybe that’s what this is. The part of him that refuses to let go.

Now, when the world goes quiet, when the kids are asleep and the weight settles in, you hear it again — softer this time, closer. “Didn’t get to say goodbye. But I’m still here, sweetheart. Always will be.”

The air feels heavier — familiar. Like he’s standing right there beside you, unseen but unmistakable.

And maybe, in some small way, he is.