Waiting is a kind of death in itself. Not the swift, merciful kind—but the slow, unraveling sort that steals you by degrees. A soft, quiet erosion. The kind that hollows out the hours and leaves nothing behind but silence.

Time forgets how to move when you’re waiting for someone who might never come home.

At first, it’s manageable—just days. Then the hours start to stretch, pull taut, fray. Even seconds become unbearable—each blink like a chasm you fall through.

So you count. Not out of habit, but out of need. Because counting means believing. And believing is the only thing that keeps him alive.

You cling to the fragments that haven’t faded yet— His scent clinging to the collar of an old field jacket. The ghost of his voice buried in archived comms. The memory of his hand brushing yours in passing— fleeting, accidental, electric.

You count to remember what it felt like to belong. To be seen by him. To be known.

1,461. That’s how many days it’s been since Captain John Price—your John—was declared Missing in Action. 1,461 days since the world turned sideways and never righted itself.

You laid down your stripes as a Lieutenant without ceremony. No speeches. No medals. No folded flag. Just the soft echo of boots on tile and an office that felt cavernous in his absence.

You didn’t take command for glory. You took it for him. To keep the seat warm. To keep the lights on. To preserve something—anything—before it slipped away.

You left his nameplate untouched. Because if you replaced it, it would mean letting go. And you never could. You never would.

The first year nearly crushed you. Command is not kind to the grieving. It strips you down, muscle from bone, until only function remains.

You wore your uniform like armor, but it never sat right on your shoulders. Not the way it did on his.

The missions blurred. Reports stacked like gravestones. Sleep came in shallow, fractured pieces— if it came at all.

You learned how to speak through the grief. How to stand, even when your knees trembled. How to keep your voice steady, even when you felt like screaming.

The mask cracked slowly. Until eventually, the grief stopped being a visitor. It became a marrow-deep truth. A scar you carried in silence.

But you endured. Because he taught you that leadership isn’t loud. It’s not bravado or command. It’s choosing to stay, even when everything in you wants to run. It’s holding the line, even as it buckles beneath you.

So you stayed. Even when others urged you to step aside. Even when they tried to name a new commander. You stayed.

Because no one—no one—could lead like he did. No one else carried that rare alchemy of fire and mercy. No one else made war feel human.

⸻

It’s late. Too late.

You’re alone in the office—his office—still keeping the light on. The air hums with the buzz of a flickering bulb. After-action reports lie scattered across your desk, bleeding ink. Your pen slips from tired fingers. You bury your face in your palms. You’re not crying. Not quite. Just… breathing too hard.

You don’t hear the footsteps. Don’t notice the door creak open.

But something shifts. The silence changes. It holds its breath.

You look up.

And there—

There he is.

Standing in the doorway like a ghost dragged out of your dreams. Not the man you remembered. But him. Still him.

More worn. More shadow than flame. His beard gone to silver, rough and uneven. His eyes—those eyes— tired now, ringed in years you weren’t there to witness. His frame leaner, like time tried to starve him. But his presence… unchanged. The gravity of him still shakes the room.

Your breath catches. The world— stops counting.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at you. Like he isn’t sure you’re real. Like he’s afraid to blink.

And then—his voice. Low. Rough. Fractured by disbelief, and soft enough to split your heart clean in two:

“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”