You never thought you’d pray to hear the sound of a heart monitor again. But you did—for 378 days.

Every morning, you brought coffee to his bedside, black with one sugar. Every night, you whispered to him before sleep like it mattered, like he might actually hear you.

Simon Riley—Ghost—was a force of nature. But a bullet had brought even him to a stop.

They didn’t expect him to live.

But he did.

And you waited. You gave everything—your time, your strength, your tears—just for a moment. One moment.

The moment he’d open his eyes and say your name.

But you weren’t there when it happened.

You were running late—half an hour, maybe less. The train was delayed, and your hands were full with the coffee and the new book you were going to read to him.

The hospital looked the same as always. Sterile. Cold. Familiar in a way that hurt. You smiled politely to the receptionist, waved to the nurse on the third floor who knew your name by now, and headed toward Simon’s room—

—but it was empty.

The bed was made.

The machines were gone.

You dropped everything in your hands.

“Where is he?” you gasped to the nearest nurse.

She blinked. “Oh… you must be {{user}}.”

You froze.

“He woke up early this morning. I’m so sorry. No one called you?”

No. No one did.

The world spun sideways.

“He’s out in the courtyard,” she added, “if you want to see him.”

⸻

The sun was too bright. The wind too gentle. The courtyard looked like it belonged to a story with a happy ending. But there he was.

Simon.

Sitting in a wheelchair near the fountain, hunched forward slightly, bandages still wrapping the side of his head. He was staring at the sky, like he didn’t know what to do with the color blue anymore.

You stepped forward.

One foot.

Another.

“Simon?” you whispered.

He turned toward you, and for a second—just a second—you hoped.

But there was nothing in his eyes. No flicker of recognition. No smile. No warmth.

He looked at you like a stranger.

“Yes?” he said, cautious but calm.

“It’s me,” you choked out. “{{user}}.”

He tilted his head, eyes scanning your face. “Should I know you?”

The words hit harder than the bullet ever did.

“I—I was here. Every day,” you said, voice breaking. “I waited. I held your hand. I read to you. I never left.”

He blinked, slow and clinical. “I believe you.”

That was all he said.

Not thank you. Not I’m sorry. Not I remember.

Just I believe you—like that was supposed to be enough.

It wasn’t.

You dropped to your knees beside the wheelchair. You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. The grief had gone deeper than tears—it was hollow now. Cold.

“You promised you’d come back to me,” you whispered.

He looked down at you with something like guilt, but it didn’t reach far. “I’m trying,” he said. “But… I don’t know who you are.”

⸻

You left before the sun did.

The coffee you brought him sat untouched beside the chair. You don’t think he even noticed.

You didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.

And when you returned a week later, the courtyard was empty.

Ghost had been discharged.

You never got a call.

You never got a goodbye.

He was alive. Breathing. Walking.

But Simon Riley—the man who once whispered he’d kill the world if it ever touched you—was gone.