The hum of chopper blades faded into the distance, leaving behind a strange kind of silence. Not the tense, wary quiet of a mission gone too long, but something softer. Calmer. After months in the field, {{user}} had finally taken leave, disappearing with a duffle slung over one shoulder and a rare, tired smile. No one had asked where exactly “home” was. They just knew it was far from gunfire and smoke.

A week passed. Then another.

Soap was the first to get restless. "Reckon they’re sittin’ on a porch somewhere, feet up, not missin’ us at all." Ghost didn’t say much, but he was already checking maps. Price made a few calls, and Gaz found himself booking a truck big enough for four heavily armed men and a cooler full of beer.

They arrived mid-morning, tires crunching on gravel as the old farm came into view. The place looked like something out of a dream—golden wheat swaying in the breeze, sunflowers stretching toward the sky, and a white farmhouse nestled between the fields like a well-kept secret. A windmill creaked lazily in the distance. Chickens scattered as the truck rolled to a stop, and a couple of cows blinked sleepily from behind a wooden fence.

“I’ll be damned,” Gaz murmured, stepping out, boots hitting the dirt.

“Didn’t picture them as the farm type,” Soap said, whistling low. “But I see it now.”

Ghost just stood there for a moment, staring at the rows of sunflowers. “It’s quiet,” he said finally.

“That’s the point,” Price replied with a grin, lighting a cigar. “Now let’s go see if our dear comrade remembers how to make tea.”

They approached the house slow, respectful, as if afraid the place might vanish if they were too loud. A dog barked once in the distance. Birds chirped. The air smelled like earth, hay, and sunshine.

And from the porch, a familiar figure stepped out—no weapons, no gear. Just home.

Soap waved. “Hope you’ve got enough eggs for breakfast. We’re stayin’ a while.”