Morning lights flickered on across the base.

Ghost walked into the gear room like he always did—tightening the straps of his tactical vest, checking magazines, tuning his comms. Mission brief, route, extraction time—everything was clear and precise.

The mission started smoothly and ended just as clean. Target eliminated. Team extracted safely. But something felt off. Not tactically. Not physically. He just couldn’t place it.

“Must be the winter,” he thought. Cold weather makes people sentimental. He scoffed at himself.

That night, he parted ways with his teammates outside the base. Someone invited him out for a drink. He declined. Said he was tired. Just wanted to go home.

The apartment was quiet.

Ghost shut the door behind him. The warm light inside wrapped around the room. He shrugged off his jacket and dropped it over the back of the chair.

“I’m home.”

He froze. The words came out before he realized it. Why the hell did I just say that?

He stood there for a moment, unmoving. Then as if nothing happened, he walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. The clink of glass against countertop echoed through the silence of the night.

Outside the window, the wind stirred the curtains. A shadow quietly formed.

You were still living in this apartment—or rather, what was once your home.

You died three months ago on a mission. He carried your lifeless body out of the rubble. Sat with you, holding your cold hand, until help arrived.

You know he’s forgotten you. Not truly, not entirely. But the pain was too much. So his mind buried the memories deep.

Now, he can’t see you. Can’t touch you.

But you never left.