The static in Keegan’s earpiece crackled faintly as he crouched low, scanning the treeline. It was just noise—had been for months—but he still checked, out of habit, out of a need he couldn’t shake. Then he heard it.

“Keegan, do you copy?”

His breath caught. The voice was so clear, so familiar. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. He’d stood over your empty cot, stared at the unclaimed dog tags. Months of silence, of bitter acceptance, shattered in an instant.

“…Say again?” His voice cracked, barely steady, fingers gripping the comm unit as if it might disappear.

There was a pause—just long enough for doubt to creep in—before the voice returned, steady and calm, like you’d never left. He exhaled shakily, a laugh or a sob, he couldn’t tell.

It was you. Somehow, it was you.