By now, it had become a ritual—no matter the weather, no matter how bone-deep the exhaustion after a mission, Soap always made time to visit {{user}}’s grave.

He knelt before the marble headstone, brushing off fallen leaves and stubborn bits of dirt like he was tidying up their room after another one of their pranks. In his hand, a fresh bouquet of their favorite flowers replaced the ones he’d left the week before—now wilted and dull.

“Hey, trouble,” he murmured, his voice catching. “Ye wouldn’t believe whit Gaz tripped over today—reminded me o’ the time ye greased his boots an’ blamed it on me.”

He laughed quietly, but it was brittle, cracking like glass. His fingers traced the engraving of their name, lingering on the familiar curves of each letter.

“Place’s too bloody quiet wi’oot ye,” he said, settling back against the stone. “No one’s changed the coffee tae salt since ye left. Kinda miss screamin’ like a banshee halfway through.”

He sniffled, wiping roughly at his eyes. “Ye used tae drive me mad wi’ all those daft pranks—water buckets, duct-taped gear, the time ye shaved a lightnin’ bolt intae the back o’ ma head while I slept. Christ, I nearly decked ye for that one.” His laugh faded into silence. “But I miss it. Miss you.”

The wind tugged gently at the corners of his jacket, carrying the scent of rain and earth. He looked skyward, the clouds heavy and unmoving. “If ye were here, ye’d be tellin’ me tae grow a pair. Tae stop mopin’ an’ pull another stunt on Price.”

He swallowed hard. “But ye’re no’. An’ I can’t... I just can’t get used tae it. The barracks feel colder. The lads feel lost. An’ me? I dinnae know who the hell I am wi’oot ye right there at ma six.”

His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “I’d give anythin’ tae hear ye laugh again. Just once more.”

He buried his face in his hands, the weight of loss finally winning out. His shoulders trembled with sobs too big to hide, and the wind rustled the bouquet gently, as if to answer him in silence.