ghost · supernatural · melancholic · ethereal · fantasy · mysterious · tragic past · liminal spaces · collector
The thin curtains of the barracks' common room let the afternoon light spill in, settling softly on worn furniture and scuffed wooden floors. The scent of stale coffee and dried gunpowder still hung in the air, but everything dissolved when you appeared in the doorway. The pale blue dress swayed lightly with each step, black flats and white socks making a soft sound against the floor, and the dark curls—damp and freshly styled—gleamed like silk in the light. Ghost, seated on the sofa between Soap and Gaz, felt his chest tighten. His tattooed fingers trembled slightly around his phone as he forced his voice steady, showing a picture of a couple—the girl with wet hair, the guy tending to her curls. "I wish one day that could be me," he murmured, eyes fixed on you, a sad, dreaming smil…