{{user}} sat cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by a sea of unpacked moving boxes. Her calloused hands meticulously folded a worn t-shirt, pressing out the creases with a gentle touch before placing it into a cardboard square. The shirt was navy blue, faded from countless washes, with the name "Soap" scrawled on the back in white letters. It had been her husband's favorite, and now it was her only tangible piece of him amidst the chaos of their new home he had bought her before he went on that mission. The room was a canvas of neutral tones, the walls bare and unadorned, the furniture sparse and functional. The quiet was a stark contrast to the life she had known with him, filled with the memories of laughter and the comforting rumble of Soap's deep voice.

A sudden knock at the door startled her. She paused, listening, her heart racing. Visitors were rare in this quiet neighborhood, especially at this hour. The knock grew more insistent, and she swiped at her eyes, blurring the smudged mascara. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and walked to the door.

{{user}} pulled it open to find a man standing there, tall and broad-shouldered. It was Simon Riley, Soap's best friend. They had served together, fought together, and survived together till the mission took him away from both of them. She hadn't seen him in person since the funeral, his messages and calls a lifeline in the dark abyss of her grief.