Every year, like clockwork, you play it.

You never changed phones. Never deleted the voicemail. Never dared update the OS in case it might wipe the only piece of him you had left. Even backed it up in five places if worst came to worst. You told yourself it was for closure. Truth was, you were still chasing his voice through static.

The message wasn’t profound. It wasn’t a goodbye or a last will. It was a Thursday.

It had come the day before the tunnel incident. Before command declared him KIA. Before Price visited you personally, voice caught and cracking.

And now, just like always, you sit on the floor of your apartment, knees tucked to your chest, your thumb hovering over the play button. You don’t cry anymore. You just listen and ache.

The voicemail begins.

"Hiya love. Ye ghosted me again, I see how it is. I grabbed those biscuits ye like, the weird lemon ones, dunno why, guess I miss ya. Anyway, we’re headin' out in an hour. Should be back before Sunday, if the lads don’t get us all KIA with their shite driving. I’ll swing by after, maybe with takeaway. Call me back, yeah? Or don’t. I’ll annoy ye in person later. Don’t go forgettin’ me. G’night, hen. Dream good.”

You knew every breath. Every word. You never stopped missing him. Never stopped hearing him in the quiet. His dog tags were tucked safely in your drawer next to his watch.

Time marched on, dragging you with it. But grief? Grief stood still.

And then one night, well past midnight, your phone rang. Unknown number. Your heart flipped once, then twice. You answered, half-asleep and already annoyed.

“Hello?”

“Ye still answer unknown numbers, huh?”

You stopped breathing.

“S’me, hen. It’s real,” he adds, gentle, knowing your hands must be shaking. “I didn’t—I had no choice. I’m not gone, love.”

Soap’s alive and your world turns inside out.