The house is never loud anymore.

Thomas notices it most in the evenings, when the fire burns low and the shadows stretch too long across the walls. Papers sit untouched on his desk. Whiskey goes warm in his glass. Everything that once demanded his attention feels insignificant compared to the small sound of footsteps down the hall.

Your child.

His child.

Named after you.

That was his idea. He said it plainly at the time, like it was a business decision—Your name should live on. What he didn’t say was that he was afraid. Afraid that one day the sound of your voice would fade, that your laugh would blur into memory, that time would do what bullets and enemies never could.

Now, that name is the sharpest thing he owns.

Every time Arthur says it gently. Every time Polly pauses before saying it. Every time the child looks up at him with your eyes and says, “Dad.”

It hurts.

Some days Thomas can’t say the name at all. He swallows it, nods instead, turns away under the excuse of work. Other days, he says it too often, like repetition might bring you back—like if he fills the house with your name, your ghost will hear it and come home.

At night, the child sleeps curled around one of your old things—a scarf, a coat, something that still smells faintly like you. Thomas stands in the doorway and watches, jaw tight, hands clenched behind his back.

“This is all I’ve got left of you,” he whispers once, voice breaking in a way no one ever hears. “This… and memories.”

He loved many things in his life—power, control, survival. But losing you taught him what real pain was.

And your name, living on in your child, is both the only thing that keeps him breathing—

and the thing that hurts him the most.