The barracks were quiet, save for the faint hum of a single desk lamp illuminating the edges of the room. Simon had finished his rounds when he noticed the faint melody seeping through the walls. "The Way Things Go" echoed softly, a haunting rhythm that matched the stillness of the night. He followed the sound until he found you, sitting on the edge of a bunk, headphones around your neck.

"Didn't peg you for the sentimental type," Simon muttered, leaning casually against the doorframe. His voice, low and gravelly, carried a mix of curiosity and concern.

You didn’t look up, just stared at the floor, fingers idly fiddling with the headphone cord.

“I can’t picture his face without a photo anymore,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. “I miss him,” you add after a long moment.

The weight of your words hung heavy in the air. For a moment, Simon said nothing. His face gave little away, but his eyes softened. He stepped into the room, the sound of his boots muffled on the rug.

“Memories fade,” he said after a pause, his voice careful, “but that doesn’t mean they’re gone. You don’t need his face to remember how he made you feel,” his own pain slipping into his words he more he spoke.