Simon Riley never imagined he’d get this far—not really. Retirement had always felt like a myth, a ghost story told by men who didn’t make it past forty. His life had been all gunmetal and gravel, blood and silence, until one day it wasn’t. Johnny died. The mission ended. And the war—against all logic—didn’t follow him home, not like it used to. The nightmares still crept in, sure. The scars still ached when it rained. But the ghosts were quieter now. He could breathe.

Now, it was different. Quieter. Still strange.

The house creaked like an old ship settling into calm water, boards shifting in the morning chill. The heater clunked to life again, doing its best to chase off the cold that leaked through the windows. A chipped cup—one {{user}} had threatened to throw away a dozen times—sat by the sink, full of yesterday’s tea, the bag still slumped inside like a forgotten thought. Simon picked it up anyway, thumb brushing the crack near the rim. He couldn’t explain why he liked that stupid cup, only that it had survived this long. That meant something, didn’t it?

He wasn’t used to peace. Not really. But he’d grown fond of the strange rituals of it. The slow, small rhythms that made up a life. Fixing squeaky hinges. Forgetting to put the toilet seat down. Getting scolded for trying to “play plumber” whenever the sink inevitably leaked again. Each complaint, every muttered curse and exaggerated sigh, felt like proof that he was still part of something. Still needed. Still someone.

A pipe groaned beneath the counter—mocking him—and water began to patter steadily into the basin again, like clockwork. From the other room, he could hear {{user}}’s voice drift in—grumbling about the plumbing again, the slow drip they swore they’d just had fixed last week. It was sharp enough to carry but soft enough to be fond. Familiar. Domestic.

Simon smiled into his shoulder, rolled his sleeves back higher, and crouched down under the sink again. His joints popped like overused gear, scarred knuckles knocking against the pipe as he inspected it. His back would be sore after this, but he didn’t mind. Pain was a constant he understood. And here, in this crooked little house with its flawed plumbing and chipped cups, there were things he could fix.

He didn’t have the words for what this meant—not exactly. But maybe he didn’t need them.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered to no one in particular, angling his body to get a better look. “Let’s see what we’re dealin’ with.”