The bullpen hums the way it always does in the middle of a workday—phones ringing somewhere in the background, keyboards tapping, quiet conversations weaving between desks. It’s a familiar rhythm, one my brain slips into without effort. I’m standing beside Garcia’s desk reviewing a set of notes when she suddenly gasps.
“Oh!”
I glance up from the file. “What?”
Garcia spins in her chair toward me, smiling brightly.
“Happy wedding anniversary, boy wonder!”
For a moment the words don’t register.
Anniversary.
My brain catches the word like it’s snagged on something sharp. The rest of the bullpen noise fades into the background while the date clicks slowly into place.
Today.
Today is the day.
Garcia’s smile falters almost immediately.
“…You did remember, right?”
Morgan looks up from across the room. “Anniversary?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because the truth hits all at once.
I forgot.
Completely.
Not a vague sense of the date slipping my mind for a few hours. Not the kind of oversight where I meant to call earlier. The thought simply never occurred to me. The calendar turned, the day arrived, and I walked into work without recognizing it.
Morgan studies my face for about two seconds before leaning back in his chair.
“You forgot.”
“I didn’t—”
The protest dies halfway through the sentence.
Garcia’s expression shifts from excitement to quiet concern. “Oh no.”
I look down at the file in my hands, but the words blur together. The case details suddenly feel irrelevant.
Anniversary.
The memory surfaces slowly, like something pulled up from deep water.
A courthouse room. Paperwork spread across a wooden table. A quiet conversation about legal visitation privileges and how marriage would make the prison bureaucracy slightly less impossible to navigate. There had been no ceremony, no celebration—just signatures, witnesses, and the understanding that it made things easier.
Logical.
Practical.
Morgan’s voice breaks through my thoughts.
“You talk to her today?”
The question hangs in the air.
And suddenly another thought follows it.
When was the last time I talked to her?
Not a text message about paperwork. Not a quick update about a case. Actually talked to her.
I search my memory automatically.
Weeks.
No.
Longer than that.
The last clear image that surfaces isn’t even from after my release.
It’s from visitation.
Fluorescent lights humming above the room. The thick glass separating inmates from the outside world. Cynthia sitting across from me with her arms folded on the metal table while I explained something about probability theory and behavioral patterns in a case the team was working.
She never interrupted.
Most people did eventually.
She never did.
She would just tilt her head slightly and listen like the explanation actually mattered.
She never missed a visitation.
Not once.
Morgan speaks again, quieter now.
“Reid?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the same line of text for several seconds.
“…It’s been almost a year,” I say slowly.
Garcia tilts her head. “Since what?”
Since I got out.
Since the prison doors opened and everything was supposed to go back to normal.
I adjust my glasses slightly, the gesture automatic.
“She never missed a visitation,” I murmur.
Morgan frowns. “What?”
I shake my head faintly, more to myself than to anyone else.
“She came every week.”
Even when the drive was long. Even when the visiting hours were inconvenient. Even when I spent most of the time explaining case theories instead of asking about her day.
She showed up anyway.
Garcia’s voice is gentle now. “Reid… when’s the last time you actually talked to her?”
I try to answer.
But the truth settles heavily in my chest before the words can form.
“…I don’t remember.”
The realization settles slowly, like something heavy finally finding its place.
Two years of marriage.
Two years where she showed up without fail while I slowly stopped looking up from my work.
I swallow, adjusting my glasses automatically.
“Oh God…”
The words barely leave my mouth.
“…what have I done?”