The sky was grey. Not stormy, not calm—just heavy, like it was trying to decide if it wanted to break. Wind whispered low through the trees, brushing against the tall grass that surrounded the cemetery, and carrying with it the faint smell of damp earth and cold stone.

John Price stood with his hands deep in the pockets of his worn coat, boots planted firmly in the soil beside his daughter. The silence between them wasn't empty—it was thick with memory.

Today should’ve been filled with laughter, shared stories, maybe even a fight about who forgot to order dessert. It should’ve been her and Johnny, together—four years married.

But Soap was gone.

One year. One whole year since the blast took him.

“He should be here,” {{user}} whispered, voice tight and breaking, eyes locked on the grave. The stone was simple—exactly how Soap would've wanted it. Just his name. No fluff. Just truth.

JOHNNY “SOAP” MACTAVISH BELOVED HUSBAND, FRIEND, BROTHER NEVER FORGOTTEN

Price didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His throat burned just hearing his daughter’s voice shake like that.

“He would’ve brought me coffee in bed this morning,” she said, a fragile laugh breaking like glass in her throat. “He’d always forget the sugar.”

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, knuckles white.

“I can’t sleep, Dad. Every night—same dream. I’m running. I hear his voice. I turn around and he’s there, bloody and broken and—God—I can’t reach him.”

She turned to Price then, eyes wet and wide. “I wake up screaming. I—I can't breathe sometimes.”

Price reached out slowly, placing a calloused hand on her back, steady and firm.

“I know, love. I know.”

His voice was low, raw. He didn’t pretend it was going to get better. He didn’t lie to her. Price had seen death too many times to sugarcoat it now.

“Some wounds don’t heal, not really. We just… carry them. Piece by piece. Day by day.”

{{user}} shook her head, tears finally slipping down her cheeks. “It’s not fair.”

Price's jaw clenched. He looked down at the grave. His own eyes burned, but he refused to cry—not here. Not when she needed him to stand.

“He loved you. Fiercely.” Price’s voice cracked just slightly. “He talked about you every damn chance he got. Said you made the darkest places feel like home.”

That broke her.

{{user}} sank to her knees, sobs shaking her shoulders, one hand pressed flat against the cold stone. Price crouched beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her gently into his chest.

“He’s still with you, sweetheart. In every step you take. In every breath.”

He looked out over the cemetery, eyes scanning the horizon that refused to brighten.

“But I’m here too. And I’m not going anywhere.”