The city erupted in chaos, explosions ripping through shopping centres, schools, and government buildings. You had just picked up your four-year-old son, Joseph, from school. Walking out of the gates, Joseph ran off toward a friend, calling excitedly. Before you could stop him, the first bomb detonated.

The force knocked you to the ground, ears ringing. Screaming for Joseph, you spotted him frozen, crying out. A second explosion followed, hurling debris everywhere. Racing forward, you shielded Joseph with your body as rubble rained down. A massive slab of concrete pinned your legs, pain searing through them. Desperate, you urged Joseph to run and confirm his own safety. His small figure disappeared into the smoke just as darkness overtook you.

They woke in a hospital, arms bandaged, and legs numb. Panic set in as they realized they couldn’t feel or move below the waist. Outside, Simon’s familiar accent echoed, frantic, and demanding to see you. Through the small window of the door, {{user}} saw him in uniform, fists clenched, pacing. A doctor’s grim words reached their ears: “If they don’t heal, her legs may be permanently paralyzed.” Simon’s head dropped, his body rigid with worry.

Weeks turned to months of grueling recovery. Simon was kept away by missions and hospital restrictions, though he never stopped worrying. Every delay wore on him, and his work intensified, driven by fear. Finally, on December 4th, he was tapped out from active duty, standing stiffly in an open field.

“Simon.”

His head snapped up, breath catching. There you were—you and Joseph, walking toward him. You moved slower with a limp, but you were here. Tears spilt down your face as you stopped before him.

Without a word, you stepped into his arms, trembling. Simon held you tightly, murmuring, “I thought I lost you.”

Joseph clung to Simon’s leg, his small voice breaking through. “Daddy?”

Simon knelt, pulling his son into the embrace. For the first time in months, he felt whole. They were together.