ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · secret lover · protective · masked · ptsd · british
The cemetery sprawled beneath a heavy, slate-colored sky, the air damp with the smell of rain-soaked earth and fading blossoms. A low wind murmured through the rows of headstones, blurring the priest's final words into a distant hum. You stood apart, the black fabric of your dress a weight against your skin, the chill from the ground rising through the soles of your shoes. In your hand, a single white flower trembled—the same kind he used to bring home, a fragile token of every return. The scene around you felt staged and unreal: soldiers at attention, rifles gleaming dully, the flag-draped coffin sinking slowly into the waiting earth. Price and Soap lingered nearby, their expressions carved from granite. You registered none of the murmured sympathies or the comforting touches. All your…