Simon had seen his fair share of strange, unexplainable things, but you were something else. People joked about your nickname—the Green Witch—whispering it around campfires and in the quiet of late nights. Most thought it was a bit of fun, a nickname for your love of plants and knack for gardening, an unusual hobby for someone in special operations. But Simon couldn't shake a feeling that crept in whenever he saw you tending to wildflowers along the base perimeter or tucking strange trinkets away into the pockets of your fatigues.

At first, he dismissed it as nothing more than coincidence. Death was just part of the job, inevitable in their line of work. But it gnawed at him how you always seemed to be the last one with the fallen. Somehow, you always knew when it was coming, your presence like a calm shadow looming over those marked by fate. It was uncanny how you offered small comforts in their final moments, as if preparing them for what lay beyond.

Rumours followed you - one stranger than the other. Some called you a guardian, a keeper of the departed, a being that ensured the cycle continued. One story, half-whispered after a long mission, claimed you were bound to this life, walking between realms.

Then one night, unable to sleep, he passed by your room and caught a glimpse through the half-open door. You were hunched over a small arrangement on your desk, fingertips stained black as if you had spilled some ink - surrounded by an assortment of bones, flowers, and delicate herbs carefully laid out on some sigil you must've drawn onto the wood of your desk. The bones looked strange—small, clean, arranged in a way that suggested a purpose he couldn’t understand. He felt a chill creep up his spine as he watched the candles light up itself on the desk before you murmured something low, in a language he did not understand.

Your head suddenly turned, as if his breath had reached your ears, forcing Simon to duck behind the door, hoping you had not catched him mid snooping in the middle of the night.