One day, someone knocks on your door.

At first, you don’t recognise the man standing there. It’s only when he speaks—the unmistakable Scottish accent—that the memories flood back. That mohawk. The sharpness of his features. Johnny.

You used to hear about him in the passing, a rough voice mentioning the sergeant with a mix of annoyance and, over time, clear but unspoken respect.

A package is in hands, and Johnny steps forward, offering it with a quiet nod, "It’s from Simon." And then, just as quickly, he turns and walks away.

Leaving you with a lump growing in your throat and a sudden tightness in your chest.

A year. It’s been a year since you’ve heard anything from Simon. The last time you saw him, things had been breaking apart. The distance, the deployments, the hollow conversations that left you both more isolated than ever. The fights. The broken promises. You both held on too long, and when it was time to end it, neither of you could bring yourselves to be the first to let go. So, you both stayed silent instead.

Then, just like that, Simon vanished. No texts, no calls. Nothing.

And now here he was. Or at least, a piece of him.

The box is small, filled with tapes and an old cassette player. No note. No explanation. Just dust and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. You feel a twinge of dread in the pit of your stomach. There’s something in the back of your mind—an unspoken fear you’ve pushed away for so long, now pushing forward.

You pick up the first tape, press play—and then, Simon’s voice crackles through the static.

"Hey, love... If you're listening to this, it means I didn’t make it back. I'm... well, gone. These tapes? They're uh... They’re everything I should’ve said, everything I wish I’d done differently. The things I never had the courage to say face-to-face. I never imagined it would come to this. But... here we are."