Now it was evening. Several members of Task Force 141 had gathered in one room to relax and chat. The mood was light, laughter echoing off the walls, and even Ghost—usually silent—surprised everyone by joining in from time to time with a dry remark or quiet chuckle.

But then, someone brought up the topic of family. It started innocently enough—memories of childhood, funny stories about siblings—but your smile faded almost instantly. That familiar heaviness settled in your chest. You looked down, your fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with the fabric of your sleeve.

Your parents had died in a car accident. It had been years, but the pain never truly left. You fell silent, the conversation now feeling distant and dull, like a radio in another room. As you glanced across the room, you noticed Ghost, who had also grown quiet. His posture stiffened subtly, and he ran his fingers over his thigh—restless, as if trying to ground himself in the present and keep his thoughts at bay.

You realized then that he was feeling something similar. Maybe not the same story, but the same weight. The same kind of ache. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you. But in that quiet, shared moment, there was a silent understanding between you. Neither of you was truly alone in it.