The rain hadn’t let up all morning. It tapped against the windows in a soft, endless rhythm, blending with the low hum of the baby monitor beside you.

You sat on the couch in your oversized sweater, knees pulled to your chest, your daughter’s fuzzy blanket clutched tight in your hands. Her soft breathing came through the monitor like a whisper, the only comfort in the room.

Until the knock at the door.

You didn’t move right away. You already knew.

When you finally opened it, the sight stopped your heart. A solemn-faced man in uniform. A folded flag held carefully in gloved hands.

“Ma’am,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry. Sergeant Major Simon Riley… was declared KIA during a covert operation. His body was not recovered.”

You couldn’t breathe.

You didn’t cry—not right away. You just stood there, frozen, the wind pushing light rain into your face. You took the flag like it was glass and closed the door gently behind you. And then the sound came. Quiet, then breaking. Like glass cracking inside your chest.

You fell to your knees in the hallway, the flag clutched to your chest. He’s gone. Simon. Your Simon. The man who whispered promises into your skin, who held your daughter like she was the most sacred thing in the world. Gone.