The house was too quiet.

Simon noticed it the moment he stepped inside, boots heavy against the floor, the sound echoing farther than it should’ve. Usually, there’d be something—small footsteps, laughter, the distant hum of a cartoon playing too loud. Something alive.

But today, there was nothing.

“Love?” he called, voice rough, softer than a man like him usually allowed. His hand hovered near his mask before dropping again. He didn’t take it off. Not yet.

You didn’t answer right away.

He found you in the kitchen, standing by the counter, staring at something he couldn’t see. Your fingers were curled around a mug long gone cold.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” you murmured.

Simon studied you. You looked… composed. Too composed. Like glass—perfect, but one touch from shattering.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

He didn’t believe you. He rarely did when it came to things like this.

Still, he stepped closer, his presence quiet but solid, like always. His hand brushed yours—just barely—and you flinched before relaxing into it.

That hurt more than anything.

“You remember what today is?” you asked suddenly.

Simon’s jaw tightened beneath the mask. Of course he did.

“Yeah,” he said.

A small smile touched your lips, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I made her favorite this morning.”

He glanced at the counter. Pancakes. Shaped unevenly. A little burnt around the edges.

His chest tightened.

“Looks good,” he managed.

“She would’ve said that,” you whispered, almost to yourself. “Even if they were terrible.”

Simon swallowed hard. His hand closed over yours properly this time, grounding you both.

“You don’t have to—” he started.

“I know,” you cut in gently. “I just wanted to.”

Silence settled again. Thick. Suffocating.

After a moment, you pulled away, grabbing your coat. “We should go.”

The sky was gray.

Not storming. Not raining. Just… dull. Like the world had forgotten how to feel anything else.

Simon stood beside you, one hand resting lightly at your back as people murmured around you. Faces blurred together—sympathetic looks, quiet voices, hands that lingered too long on your shoulders.

He barely registered any of it.

His focus stayed on you.

You hadn’t cried. Not once.

Not when the doctors spoke in careful tones.
Not when the machines went quiet and got replaced by cries and pleads. Not when the room emptied and it was just the two of you and—

Simon clenched his fists.

You stepped forward.

And that’s when he saw it.

The small white casket.

Everything in him went still.

Your breath hitched—just once—before you knelt, hands trembling as they hovered over the polished surface. Like you were afraid to touch it. Like it would make it real.

“She loved birthdays,” you said softly, voice finally cracking. “Remember how excited she got? Woke us up at six in the morning…”

Simon couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

“You promised her we’d do the candles again tonight,” you continued, tears finally spilling over. “You said five candles was a big deal.”

His vision blurred.

“I didn’t even get to sing to her,” you whispered.

That broke him.

Simon dropped beside you, arms wrapping around you with a force that was almost desperate, like if he didn’t hold on, you’d disappear too.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice shaking, raw in a way it had never been before. “I’m so sorry.”

Your hands clutched his jacket, burying your face against him as the sobs finally came—they started soft, tearing through the silence you’d been holding all day.

And Simon… Simon held you.

As the world quietly mourned your daughter—
on the day that was supposed to be her fifth birthday.