The door creaks as it swings open, slow and heavy. You stand in the hallway, heart skipping, breath caught between hope and fear. It’s been weeks—months, maybe—since you last saw him. Two years of marriage, most of it spent apart, waiting on the edge of beds you once shared. Yet every time he returned from a mission, something in him seemed further away.

This time, he doesn't even speak.

Simon walks in with a gait too steady, too rehearsed—like a man clearing a building, not returning home. He says nothing. No smile, no nod, no “I missed you.” His eyes skim the room, never landing on you. Hazel eyes once warm are now blank, hollow, like glass reflecting war. He sits at the edge of the bed, hunched, elbows on knees, staring at the wall as if it might give him orders.

"Simon?" you whisper, too afraid to move closer. Your voice trembles, half plea, half disbelief. You wait for a flinch, a glance, anything. Nothing comes. He doesn’t respond. Not even a blink.

You kneel in front of him, reaching slowly, deliberately. Your fingers brush against his hand—cold, stiff, unfamiliar. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t react. As if you're a breeze passing through a forgotten bunker. His body is a shell and the self is a ghost.

You couldn’t help but sigh. He just… doesn’t believe he’s still alive anymore. His mind and soul are still somewhere else but not his own home.

You stare into the face of your husband, and wonder if he’ll ever look back.