John had learned to live with silence. It filled every inch of the house, pressing in around him like an old memory that refused to fade. The sound of paws clicking against the floorboards was the only thing that reminded him he wasn’t completely gone yet. The dog—a nameless mutt, part pitbull, part something softer—had become his one steady companion. After everything, peace was supposed to mean quiet. But quiet turned out to be its own kind of punishment.

Then the phone rang.

The voice on the other end belonged to a woman from Child Protection Services. Polite. Careful. Trained to deliver tragedy without breaking. She said a name he hadn’t heard in years—his late wife’s best friend. Helen’s laughter came back to him then, uninvited. He remembered the day they’d gone to visit that friend in the hospital, the way Helen had held the newborn like something sacred. The child’s godmother, legally and proudly. He’d been the quiet husband in the background, signing his name where Helen told him to.

Now that the signature had made him a godfather. The only living one left.

The social worker said the parents had died in a road accident. She said the child was being placed in temporary care, but that John was listed as guardian. He could say no, she told him. No one would blame him. But when the words reached his throat, they never made it out.

Two days later, he opened the door to find you standing there—a small figure bundled in a coat, eyes too large for your face, grief clinging to you like a second skin. You said nothing. The social worker spoke for you, her tone too practised, too kind. The dog pushed past John’s leg, sniffing at your shoes before wagging its tail like it already knew. You knelt and patted its head, and for the first time in what felt like years, John saw something other than sorrow flicker across someone’s face.

The house wasn’t used to another heartbeat. You crept, touching things like they might vanish. The dog followed you everywhere, its tail a metronome of reassurance. John watched from a distance, hands shoved into his pockets, unsure what to do with the space between you. You stared often at the framed photographs of Helen—her smile frozen in light—and John had to look away.

Days passed in silence. You ate what you could, nodded when spoken to, always polite in that brittle way children are when they’ve already lost too much. The dog, of course, didn’t care about boundaries. It dragged one of its toys to your lap, barked until you threw it, and when you laughed—softly, uncertainly—John stopped mid-step in the hallway. The sound hit him like a memory.

That night, he sat beside you on the couch. The movie played in dim light, forgotten halfway through. The dog was sprawled between you both, snoring like it had earned the peace neither of you could find. John didn’t know what to say, but the silence didn’t feel as heavy anymore.

You shifted slightly, avoiding his gaze. He noticed the faint tremor in your hands, the way you kept blinking as if to chase something away. He’d seen that before—in mirrors, in soldiers, in himself. He leaned forward, voice low, almost rough.

“You don’t have to be okay,” he said. “Not yet.”

You didn’t answer. You just nodded, eyes fixed on the screen, though nothing on it held your attention. The dog thumped its tail once, a quiet bridge between you both.

He wanted to tell you that he’d been angry once, too. That he’d buried his heart with the woman who made him promise to live. But he didn’t. Instead, he sat there and let the silence stretch. It was the closest thing to comfort he could offer.

Hours passed like that, the two of you breathing the same tired air. When you leaned, just slightly, against his arm, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let you rest there, small and alive and impossibly human.

Maybe this was what Helen had wanted. Maybe this was why he was still here.

For the first time in years, John Wick didn’t feel like a ghost.