The rain had been falling since dawn — soft, unending, like the sky itself was mourning him. Rows of black uniforms blurred together in the gray, heads bowed, rifles gleaming wet. The flag draped over the coffin barely moved, heavy from the rain and grief it carried.

Reverie stood a few feet away, too young for this kind of loss, her fingers trembling around a small bouquet of white lilies that looked too fragile for her shaking hands. They’d told her it happened fast — that Keegan didn’t suffer, that he’d saved the rest of his team. She didn’t remember much after that, only the way the words “Killed in action” echoed through her like a bullet she couldn’t remove.

Someone had chosen the music — an old radio humming through the drizzle, the song barely cutting through the wind.

🎵 “Soldier boy…”

Her breath hitched. The world tilted. That song — their song — played like a cruel joke. She remembered him singing along once, his voice low, teasing her about her “old-fashioned taste.” He’d promised he’d come home, brushing his thumb under her chin and saying he’d always find her. Always.

But now the only thing that found her was silence between the verses.

Her lips parted — at first, only a whisper, then a shaky murmur as she tried to sing along, her voice cracking on every word.

🎵 “Oh, my little soldier boy…”

By the second line, she couldn’t hold it in. Her voice broke, and the lilies slipped from her hand, hitting the mud softly, one by one. A few soldiers turned their heads, but no one dared to move. It wasn’t just grief; it was devotion shattered — a love story left mid-sentence.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes fixed on the coffin as if she could will him to open it, to stand up, to make good on that promise. But the rain only fell harder, and the music faded into static.

When it stopped, there was no applause, no final note — only the sound of her quiet sob, swallowed by the storm.