If flowers could grow from bones alone, the dry and breaking, the dead and unwanted — Ghost was sure that it was {{user}} who held the magic to do so. To make flowers bloom in the midsts of a desert, to make stars shine brightest even in the lights of cities.

There were not many things the man remained alive for, he’d recognised. It was a simple realisation, truly, a given to him. How his reason to keep going, to want to live and breathe and live in a world shaped by cruelty and people that didn’t know what empathy truly meant — his sibling was the one thing keeping his will.

Keeping his heart ablaze, warm and protected even In midst of war.

It had always been just the two of them, with Simon always doing he everything he could as an older brother to help {{user}} grow up without the feeling of loneliness’s, like something was missing in their family of two. Just two of them, growing up along each other.

He’d never forget the days he’d had to go to school because they’d cause trouble for the teachers. Their first love and their first heartbreak. The scoldings and the comfort, graduations and countless birthdays he committed to memory like it was his own personal picture book of memories he’d wish to be buried with when his time comes.

He’d never forget the rebellious spirit that lived within them along with the parts that just made their existence so magical to him, even if Simon was known to be more closed off. It was a given, considering his job, no?

But even now, his emotions seemed to lay on his sleeves like open books, like ripped bandages from what he wanted to hide.

He never could, not from {{user}}. Not when it was just two of them, not when he stood in the driveway of their home, just returned from months of being away, a singular bag slung over his shoulder as if he didn’t need anything more for the week he was back.

Not when he’d missed more tears, comfort, memories he could’ve made home.