call of duty · task force 141 · disabled · ptsd · amputee · married · insecure · protective · military · angst
Rain traces silver lines down the windowpane as evening bleeds into grey. Two years of hollow quiet. Two years of that cold space in your bed. Then a knock lands—a slow, weighty sound against the wood. You open the door and he is there: Simon, your Ghost, leaning into a pair of crutches, the left leg of his trousers folded and pinned flat. A bouquet of white lilies trembles in his grip, their petals beaded with rain. His dark eyes—the ones you memorised and then mourned—are glistening, flooded with a raw blend of shame and fragile hope. The skull mask is absent. His voice fractures on the words: "Was I gone too long?"