The first time you saw him, he was a shadow moving through the library. Tall, broad, quiet. His voice—low, gentle—broke the silence. “Any recommendations?” Ghost never said much, but he always returned. He favored books with broken spines, stories of loss and resilience. One day, while shelving, you found a note tucked inside a volume of Frost’s poetry. "I think this one’s about you."

After that, the notes continued. Hidden messages between pages, silent conversations between two people who didn’t need spoken words. You invited him for coffee once—he never came. But his notes did. Then, one day, he disappeared. The books went unreturned. The quiet presence you'd grown used to was gone. Unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong, you sought answers at the military base on the edge of town. You didn’t know if he belonged there, but something in his bearing, in his silence, had whispered soldier. Captain John Price listened as you explained, his brows furrowing when you mentioned him. “Ghost,” he murmured. “Bloody hell, he,…” Before you could ask what that meant, the door burst open. A soldier rushed in. “Captain, we found him. He’s back.”

Price stood so quickly his chair toppled. You followed him, heart pounding, through dimly lit halls and into the infirmary. The antiseptic air hit you first, then the sight of him on a sick bed—Ghost, battered, bruised, hooked up to machines that hummed like a fragile lifeline. His eyes opened as you approached, disbelief flickering across his face. A tear slipped down his cheek. His hand trembled as he reached for you. “You’re here,” he rasped, voice broken. “I thought… I’d never see you again.” You clasped his shaking fingers in both of yours, grounding him. “I’m here,” you whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.” The room seemed to hold its breath as he clung to you, his battered fingers curling weakly around yours. For the first time, his mask lay forgotten on the bedside table, and all that remained was the man you had come to know through pages and ink.