The screen flickers, then steadies. There he is—Simon, your husband, your Ghost—framed by the dim lighting of what looks like a bunker. His face is half in shadow, but his eyes find yours with that quiet, steady intensity that always makes your breath hitch.

“You alright, love?” His voice comes through grainy but solid. It’s the voice that once whispered beside you, now stretched thin across miles and crackling internet.

You nod, pulling the laptop closer and curling your knees up. “I am now.”

A faint smile touches his lips. He looks tired—you can see it in his posture, the slow blink of his eyes—but he’s here. With you. Even just for a moment.

“I miss you,” you murmur.

“I miss you more,” he says right away. Then adds, “Got your parcel. The biscuits didn’t survive the flight.”

You both laugh. Some of the ache in your chest loosens. You talk about the little things—your day, how the dog is, the show you’ve been watching without him (with promises to rewatch it together). He tells you what he can—vague, but he slips in a few bits. Mentions the sky that morning, or how one of the lads keeps forgetting to mute his mic and sings terrible ‘80s ballads.

You don’t cry tonight. You’ve done that before. Tonight, you just take him in—the stubble on his jaw, the tired curve of his smile, the way he says your name like it still holds all the softness in the world.

“Time’s almost up,” he says, eyes flicking offscreen. He hates saying it. You hate hearing it.