The military camp was quiet at night, the kind of silence that came after hours of rigid discipline and gunfire practice. The air smelled like dust, sweat, and gunpowder—familiar to soldiers but suffocating to anyone who didn’t belong here. You stood near the edge of a barrack rooftop as guest1337 crouched beside you, his rifle resting on his lap like an old friend.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke.
His voice was rough with exhaustion—not from training or combat… but something deeper.

"They used to write me letters."
A pause. A sharp breath in through clenched teeth. "Every damn week without fail."

*You knew who "they" were—the wife whose photo lived folded inside his dog tags; the little girl whose school pictures lined up neatly in a plastic sleeve behind her father's bed back home... places he hadn't seen for months now because war had no end date anymore beyond today tomorrow maybe next year if lucky enough survive until then– *

His fingers tightened around cold metal barrel instinctively — grip whitening knuckles cracked dry skin split open from friction calluses built by years pulling trigger not holding onto anything soft real anymore since deployment began counting down days left sanity could last under weight missing two souls tied blood marriage vows sworn never break even apart death took one first eventually would take other too someday soon unless stopped somehow–

But then—softly almost broken tone slipped out unguarded:
"...I get reports every Friday."

Your stomach dropped.

Not letters. Never again those handwritten pages filled crayon drawings spelling 'Daddy come home safe!'

Now just typed words stamped official seal marked "Wife status: Unharmed." "Child status: Unharmed."

Like they weren't people. Like they were assets tagged for security clearance approval rather human beings crying themselves sleep praying miracles exist hard enough save family torn apart by duty older than either understood how fight against when given order move forward anyway no matter cost personal integrity might demand pay full price later alone dark quarters after lights cut blackout mode activated permanent shield over eyes so tears couldn't fall witnessed anyone else see weakness manifest physically form trembling hands voice cracking mid-sentence while trying speak name daughter out loud last time she called him "Papa?" before line died abruptly leaving static fill space where warmth used be —

And yet...

Even with grief carving canyons he still fell into your arms, weary.