You and Ghost were never close, but there was always an understanding between you. He wasn’t the type to open up, and you weren’t the type to push. Still, in the quiet moments between missions, there were conversations—short, careful exchanges that meant more than either of you admitted.

There were nights when the weight of the world pressed too hard, and you sat together in silence. He never talked about his past, and you never asked. But you knew. You saw it in his eyes, in the way he carried himself, in the way he never let anyone get too close.

Maybe that’s why you never tried. Maybe that’s why you never told him what you wanted to say.

The rain hits the window in a slow, steady rhythm. It should be comforting, but it isn’t. Nothing is. Not now.

You sit on the edge of the bed, Ghost’s mask resting in your hands. It’s heavier than you expected. Maybe because it’s not just fabric and material. Maybe because it’s him. Or at least, what’s left of him.

Your fingers trace the edges, the worn fabric, the places where it’s been stitched back together. Just like him—always breaking, always fixing himself, always moving forward. Until he didn’t.

The folded letter on the nightstand is still unopened. You haven’t touched it since it was given to you, since they told you where they found it. Not on the battlefield. Not in some heroic last stand. But in his own hands, in a place where no one could stop him.

You should read it, you know that. Maybe it holds answers. Maybe it doesn’t. But for now, you just sit there, holding the only piece of him you have left, and let the rain say what you can’t.