Simon didnโt think he could be a father.
Not because he didnโt want to beโhe did. Quietly, painfully. But he never believed heโd live long enough for it. He didnโt think thereโd be a version of life where he could sit still, trade gunpowder for cradle songs, or let something so fragile as a child curl up on his chest and fall asleep without fear in the world.
But then you came. And thenโฆ she did.โ ๐
He was terrified.
When you told him, his first reaction was silence. Heavy, stillโthe kind that made your skin crawl even though you knew he would never hurt you. He stared at the floor for a long time. Not out of anger. Not even shock. Just a weight pressing down on every piece of him, trying to make sense of a life where he could deserve something this soft.
He didnโt say anything for hours. But that night, while you lay in bed pretending to sleep, you felt his callused hand over your stomach. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought he might break both of you.
โIโll keep you safe,โ he whispered so quietly, it couldโve been a prayer.
He wasnโt there when she was born.
Mission delays. A storm grounded his transport. Heโd torn through his comms trying to reach anyone, anythingโcursing the universe for making him a soldier first, father second.
But when he walked into that hospital room with dirt still on his boots and shadows under his eyes, and saw you holding herโฆ saw her pink and alive and real in your armsโฆ
He broke.
He didn't cry, not really. But his shoulders shook as he sat by your side and pressed his forehead to your temple. He stared at her like she was a ghost haunting his pastโsomething he never thought heโd be allowed to touch.
โSheโs so small,โ he murmured, voice cracking.
โYeah,โ you replied.
That night, he didnโt sleep. Just watched her chest rise and fall, afraid to blink.
Simon was awkward at first.
He held her like she might detonateโarms stiff, movements cautious. Changing diapers felt like defusing bombs. And baby talk? Forget it. He read her the back of his cereal box in a low, gravelly voice, and she cooed like he was reciting poetry.
He wouldnโt say much, but he did. Morning bottles already warmed before you woke. Midnight pacing when she wouldnโt stop crying. One hand rubbing small circles on her back, the other gripping the baby monitor like a lifeline when he had to leave.
He taught her to crawl by laying on the floor with her, inching backward like it was a stealth op. When she took her first steps toward him, he froze. It felt like watching a sunrise you never thought youโd see.
She follows him everywhere.
Like a little ghost of her own.
He doesnโt let many people see her. Doesnโt post pictures. Doesnโt talk about her on base. But he keeps a small photo tucked behind his dog tags. If anyone catches a glimpse, they know not to ask.
Sheโs curious. Smart. A little quietโlike him. She watches everything. Studies the way he moves, tilts her head when he speaks like sheโs decoding him. When she starts copying his dry, deadpan jokes, you swear Simon almost smiles.
He lets her paint his face with glitter and stars when sheโs bored. He sits there stone-faced, letting her stick pink butterfly clips into his blond hair. If you ask why, he just shrugs:
โShe wanted to. Didnโt wanna say no.โ
He teaches her how to be strongโnot cruel, not hardened, just aware. He teaches her to pay attention to exits, to trust her gut. When she has nightmares, heโs there before she can even call for him.
And when she asks him why he wears a mask sometimes, he kneels down and explains it gently. That some things are meant to protect, not hide. That itโs okay to be soft, but itโs also okay to be careful.
And then he lets her try it on. It drapes over her face like a cape. She laughs.
โLook, Daddy. Iโm just like you!โ
โNo, sweetheart,โ he says, and this time, he does smileโsmall, but real. โYouโre stronger than I ever was.โ
Simon is a man full of ghosts.
But when heโs with her, they quiet.
Youโve seen it.
The way his shoulders relax when sheโs in the room. The way his voice drops softer when he reads to her. The way he presses his forehead to hers before he leaves, and whispers, โYou be good for Mum, yeah? Iโll be back.โ
He hates going.
Every goodbye leaves a crack in him.
But every returnโwhen she runs to him screaming โDaddy!โ and tackles his legs with her little armsโthatโs what mends it.
He doesnโt know if heโs doing it right. Heโs always afraid heโs too broken, too cold, too late. But you tell him heโs the safest place she knows.
And sometimes, when the house is quiet and sheโs asleep in the next room, heโll hold you close and whisper,
โThank you.โ
Sheโs eight now.
She tells people her dad is a superhero.
Simon doesnโt correct her.
He doesnโt know what version of him sheโs seeingโwhat stories sheโs crafted in her head to explain his scars or the way he flinches when doors slam too hard. She doesnโt know what heโs done. What heโs capable of. To her, heโs justโฆ strong. Invincible. Safe.
He doesnโt deserve it. But he lives for it.
There are nights when the house is quiet and warm and sheโs tucked beneath her galaxy-print bedsheets, one arm flung off the mattress and glitter nail polish chipped from the day.
And heโll sit outside her room. In the hallway. Hands clenched between his knees.
He listens to her breathe.
He doesn't know why he tortures himself like thatโwhy he waits for nightmares that never come, or for screams sheโs long since outgrown. Maybe heโs still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe heโs waiting to fail her. Like he failed his family. His brother. Himself.
Heโll sit there until his knees ache. Until the silence starts to feel like mercy again.
Then he goes to bed, lays next to you, and stares at the ceiling like thereโs a sniper on the roof. Like peace is a trap heโs too smart to fall for.
She was never supposed to see it.
An old flash drive. Left in a drawer he thought was too high. Sheโd plugged it into her school laptop, probably looking for cartoons.
She didnโt say anything until hours later. She was quiet. Paler than usual.
โDaddyโฆ you hurt bad people, right?โ
He froze.
โโฆWhatโd you see, love?โ
โSome men. You hurt them. Butโฆ you were saving someone, werenโt you?โ
There was no panic in her voice. No fear. Just a question, small and sincere, wrapped in child-logic and trust.
Simon knelt in front of her. Took both her hands in his. Looked her in the eye like it was the most sacred thing heโd ever done.
โYes,โ he said. โI hurt bad people. Iโve done things Iโm not proud of. Things Iโd never want you to see. But Iโve never hurt someone innocent. Never would.โ
She nodded slowly. And thenโGod, kids are strangeโshe just reached out and touched the scar on his cheek, the one beneath the corner of his eye.
โIโm not scared of you,โ she said softly. โYouโre my hero.โ
And that was the first time in his life Simon wanted to cry in front of someone.
He held her so tight that night, you thought she might get smothered. But she clung to him tooโarms around his neck like an anchor, like sheโd never let go.
She gets more clever every year.
She steals his hoodies. Starts hiding his mask in ridiculous placesโlike the freezer, or under her bedโjust to see how long it takes him to find it. She claims itโs to โkeep him home longer.โ
He pretends to be annoyed.
โYouโre a little brat,โ he mutters, tossing her over his shoulder.
โI'm baby!โ she giggles back, kicking her legs.
They have their own games. Their own signals. A whole silent language between them. When sheโs nervous at school, she touches her wrist twiceโit means โI wish you were here.โ When heโs home late from a mission, she leaves a plastic dinosaur on the kitchen tableโit means โI waited.โ
She tells him she wants to be like him.
A protector. A fighter.
He tells her she already is.
But inside, the thought terrifies him.
Youโre the one who packs his bag now. She wonโt help anymore. Not since last time.
Sheโd cried so hard she threw up. Told him he promised heโd stay longer. That โlongerโ shouldnโt mean โonly six days.โ She was angry in that way only children can beโgrief-stricken and pure.
โI hate the army,โ she said, clutching the edge of his vest.
He knelt again. Always kneeling, always trying to shrink himself to meet her where she is.
โYou donโt have to understand, love. But I hope one dayโฆ youโll forgive me for missing things.โ
She didnโt answer. Just turned and ran to her room.
He left anyway. And it broke him.
He kept her crayon drawing in his vest pocket the whole mission. Folded and faded. A stick figure version of him holding hands with her beneath a smiling sun.
Itโs still there.
And when he comes back, Itโs always late.
Youโll hear the gate creak. The boots on the gravel. Sheโll fly out of bed before you can stop herโbarefoot and wild-haired, running down the stairs.
He drops everything to catch her.
She wraps herself around him like a vine. He doesnโt even get the mask off before her little arms are around his neck and sheโs whispering โI missed you I missed you I missed youโ like a spell.
โI missed you too, sweetheart.โ
He holds her like sheโs the only thing tying him to earth. And maybe she is.
Teenage girls are loud in their silence.
Simon learned that the hard way.
She doesnโt slam doors or scream. She doesnโt yell โYou donโt understand!โ or throw things across the room. She just gets quiet. Withdraws. Answers in clipped syllables, disappears into her hoodie, headphones in, eyes distant.
She used to run to him the second he came home. Now she doesnโt even look up from her phone.
Sheโs fifteen.
And sometimes, Simon thinks sheโs slipping through his fingers, and heโs got nothing left but shadows and memory.
It started small.
She stopped asking him to braid her hair before bed. Said she could do it herself. She stopped leaving dinosaurs on the kitchen table. Stopped leaving notes in his rucksack.
He knew it wasnโt personal.
It was growing up.
But that didnโt make it easier.
โGive her space,โ you told him gently. โSheโs figuring herself out.โ
He tried. He really did.
But he couldnโt help hovering near her doorway some nights, watching her back hunched over a laptop, music playing softly. Wondering if she still remembered how he used to sing to her in a voice barely above a whisper when she couldnโt sleep. Wondering if she remembered why he was gone so often.
Wondering if she still thought he was her hero.
It came up one night, out of nowhere.
She was setting the table. Heโd been home for five days. The air was calm, the routine safe. And then:
โDo you wear the skull mask because you want to scare people?โ
He looked up from the sink, heart stalling for a second.
He turned off the water. Dried his hands slowly. Looked her in the eye.
โNo,โ he said after a long pause. โI wear it because I used to think I was already dead.โ
She blinked.
Didnโt say anything.
He almost regretted being honest.
โBut thenโฆโ His voice caught. โThen I had you.โ
The silence that followed was thick. Fragile.
And then she whispered:
โYouโre not dead.โ
He cleared his throat, chest aching. โNo. Not anymore.โ
She set down a fork.
Walked over.
And, for the first time in months, hugged him without needing a reason.
He didnโt let go for a long time.
The hardest part of fatherhood for Simon isnโt leaving. Itโs letting her live.
Sheโs starting to go out more now. With friends. Late bus rides. Music festivals. Sleepovers at houses he doesnโt know.
He doesnโt sleep well on those nights.
You can see itโthe way his leg bounces, the way he checks the time every fifteen minutes, the way he keeps his phone unlocked, her tracker app open on the screen.
โSheโs not a target,โ you remind him. โSheโs a kid.โ
But in his world, innocence doesnโt mean safety.
And light doesnโt mean thereโs no danger.
When she comes home, he does the same ritual every time:
One look over her face.
A glance at her hands.
Eyes flicking to her shoes, her wrists, her neck.
A checklist of survival. It takes seconds. She doesnโt even notice.
But he does.
Only when heโs sure sheโs safe does he let himself exhale.
The first time she really breaksโitโs quiet.
She comes home from school, bags under her eyes, and says: โI donโt think anyone really likes me.โ
Simon is at the table cleaning a rifle.
But he puts it down immediately.
And for a long time, they just sit on the couch. Side by side. She doesnโt cry. He doesnโt pry. Eventually, she says, โI feel like Iโm too much for people. Too weird.โ
He looks at her then. Really looks.
And in the softest voice he can manage, he says:
โYouโre not too much. The worldโs just too loud.โ
She leans into him.
He lets her.
Sheโs taller now, but somehow still fits under his arm.
โI donโt know how to be normal.โ
He smiles, brushing her hair back behind her ear.
โGood. Normalโs overrated.โ
She laughs, watery and real.
Itโs the sound of his heart stitching back together.
Simon isnโt great with words. Not the soft ones, anyway.
But he shows her love in the way he always waits up.
In the way he replaces the lightbulb in her lamp before it burns out.
In the way he gives her his old hoodie when sheโs sick and lets her keep it.
In the way he memorizes the names of her friends. Learns their schedules. Watches over them from a distance like a silent guardian.
She doesnโt say โI love youโ as often as she used to.
But when she falls asleep in the car and mumbles โDadโ like itโs homeโฆ
He knows.
He knows.
Sheโs not a child anymore.
But sheโll always be his little girl.
And heโll always be the ghost at her backโquiet, watchful, loyal.
Not haunting her.
Protecting her.
Always.
He never taught her how to drive.
You did.
She insisted.
He didnโt mind. Truthfully, the thought of her behind the wheel made his pulse spike. Not because he didnโt trust her, but because he knew the world. Knew how quickly things turned. He could pull a man out of a wrecked Humvee, but the idea of her skidding into a light pole because of wet asphalt made his vision go white.
So he let you take her.
Watched from the window.
She waved at him once from the driverโs seat, grinning like she owned the road.
And he waved back. Small, barely-there.
But it was enough.
It was always enough.
The house is quieter now.
Sheโs twenty-three.
Lives two cities over. Has a dog. A job. A life.
She comes home when she can, which isnโt often. You say thatโs normal. Thatโs what kids do. But he still checks the front window around five every evening. Still listens for the sound of a key turning in the lock that doesnโt come.
He still sets her place at the table when you arenโt looking.
You find the folded napkins sometimes. The extra fork. He never explains. You donโt ask.
She doesnโt call him "daddy" anymore.
Thatโs what time does.
It sands things down.
She calls him Dad now. Or Old Man if sheโs feeling playful.
He likes it. But it stings in a quiet way. Like finding an old picture and realizing you donโt remember the moment it captured.
There are still hugs. Still warmth. But she doesnโt cling to him anymore. Doesnโt bury her face in his neck. Doesnโt fall asleep on his chest while he reads boring manuals aloud to lull her.
Instead, she brings over wine. Talks about work. Politics. The rent.
Sheโs brilliant. Composed. Fierce in a way that reminds him of a younger you.
And sometimes, when she laughs, he sees the little girl she used to beโcheeks round, eyes bright, hands sticky from jam.
Then the moment fades.
And sheโs grown again.
He doesnโt go on missions anymore.
Retired now. Officially.
He didnโt tell her right away. Wasnโt sure how. He expected a celebration, or at least a toast.
But when he finally said it over dinnerโsoftly, plainly: โIโm done. Hung it up.โโshe looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.
โGood,โ she said. โYou were always more than that.โ
He looked at her thenโreally lookedโand realized she hadnโt seen him as a soldier in years.
Sheโd seen the man.
The father.
The one who tucked her in and stitched her broken toys and waited outside ballet recitals with bloodied knuckles he never explained.
He had been trying so hard to protect her from the world.
But sheโd been watching himโall this time.
Learning how to survive by the way he loved her.
One night he got sick.
It wasnโt life-threatening. Just a flu.
But he hadnโt been sick in years, and it hit him harder than expected.
She came home that weekend without asking.
Let herself in. Took one look at him bundled in blankets on the couch and said, โYou look like shit.โ
He coughed. โNice to see you too.โ
But her hands were gentle. She made him tea. Sat on the armrest of the couch, fingers brushing over his forehead like she was checking for fever the way he used to when she was small.
She stayed the night. Slept on the floor beside him like a sentry.
He woke at 3 a.m. and saw her curled up in an old hoodie of his, her phone clutched in one hand, screen still lit with some half-written message.
And for a secondโjust a flickerโhe wished she were small again.
Not because he didnโt love who sheโd become.
But because that time was so brief.
So unbearably sweet.
And it was gone.
It was raining.
She stood beside him under a grey sky, both in black, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.
It was his brotherโs grave. The one he used to visit alone.
โI wish Iโd met him,โ she said quietly.
โHe wouldโve loved you,โ Simon replied. โYouโve got his mouth. Same sarcasm.โ
She smiled through the tears. Leaned her head against his shoulder.
โDo you ever miss being young?โ
He didnโt answer right away. Rain hit the stone like fingers drumming.
โI miss you being young,โ he finally said.
And she didnโt speak again. Just held his arm tighter.
One day, it happens.
She calls himโvoice shaking, words rushed. Something about a near-accident. Someone ran a red light. Her hands were shaking. She didnโt know who else to call.
And Simon?
He was already in the car before she finished the sentence.
He found her on a curb, hands trembling around a coffee cup someone had handed her. He didnโt ask questions. Just crouched in front of her and pulled her into his arms.
She broke. Sobbed into his coat like she was twelve again.
Like she was small and scared and needed her dad.
And he just held her.
Kept one hand on the back of her head.
The other over her heart.
โYouโre safe,โ he murmured. โIโve got you.โ
Later that night, she curled up on his old couch, wrapped in his blanket, and whispered,
โI didnโt want to call you. Thought I was too old.โ
He shook his head.
โYouโll never be too old to be my girl.โ
And one dayโฆ
One day, itโs just the two of them on the porch.
Youโre inside baking. The sunโs going down. Her eyes are softer now.
She says, โDo you ever think you couldโve had a normal life?โ
He doesnโt answer at first.
Just watches the wind move through the trees.
Then:
โThis is normal. For me.โ
She leans her head on his shoulder.
He doesnโt flinch anymore when touched. Not by her.
โYou were always enough, you know,โ she says.
He swallows. Tries to look away. Fails.
And then she adds, quieter, โYou saved me. Even when I didnโt know I needed saving.โ
He closes his eyes.
Because in that moment, it doesnโt matter what heโs done.
Who heโs killed.
What haunts him.
Because this is what remains.
This girl. This woman. This life they made.
And thatโฆ is enough.
He never thought heโd grow old.
Never imagined it.
He used to think men like him didnโt make it past 40 โ not without a bullet or a blaze or a quiet disappearance somewhere no one would bother looking. There was always something inside him waiting for it โ like his bones expected to be abandoned.
But now?
Now his body aches in new ways.
His knees click when he gets up too fast.
The hair at his temples has gone silver, and his hands have lost their steady, deadly stillness.
But youโre still here.
Still brushing your teeth beside him. Still humming while folding sheets. Still asking if he wants tea or if his shoulder hurts when it rains.
And it guts him. Every single time.
That you stayed.
That you chose to grow old next to a man who never expected to live long enough to deserve it.
Your love has changed.
Itโs not fireworks now. Not firelight and breathless kissing in hotel rooms after too-long deployments.
Itโs quieter. But deeper. Warmer.
Itโs how you always leave the light on for him, even when he forgets to ask.
Itโs how he sets out your slippers without thinking, so your feet donโt touch the cold floor in the morning.
Itโs how you never ask where heโs going when he disappears into the garage, and how he never questions the way you cry at old home videos, even though youโve seen them a hundred times.
Thereโs a kind of intimacy now that goes deeper than touch.
A knowing.
A weightless ease, like your hearts have learned how to lean on each other without needing to speak.
Youโll brush past him in the kitchen, and heโll place a hand on the small of your back โ not to move you, not to guide you, but just to feel you. To remind himself youโre real. Here.
Still his.
Sometimes he just watches you.
He wonโt say it out loud. Heโs too old for poetry, and too hardened for flowery things. But sometimes, when youโre reading by the window, your glasses slipping down your nose and the light touching your cheek just rightโ
He stares at you like youโre something holy.
Like you're the last beautiful thing left in a world he once thought heโd never understand.
Heโll pretend to be half-asleep on the couch, or too focused on whateverโs in his hands โ but heโs watching you. Memorizing you again and again, like a man trying to hold onto something too big to keep.
Because he knows.
He knows time takes things.
Heโs lost too many people to pretend otherwise.
So he watches. And he commits you to memory. Every wrinkle near your eyes. Every gray strand of hair. Every sigh. Every smile.
You catch him sometimes. And he always looks away like a boy caught daydreaming.
โYouโre staring,โ you tease.
He shrugs. โI always do.โ
He still has the mask.
Itโs in a box now. Top of the closet. Buried under old jumpers and Christmas decorations.
You told him he didnโt need it anymore, and he agreed.
But he kept it. Quietly. Respectfully.
You found him once, years ago, just sitting with it in his lap. The house was silent. The air still.
You didnโt say anything. Just sat beside him.
He looked at you, eyes far away, voice quieter than youโd ever heard.
โI wore this to keep the world out,โ he said. โBut somehow, you still found your way in.โ
And you leaned against him.
And he let you.
And neither of you moved for a long time.
He loves you differently now.
Not less. Not softer.
But heavier.
Thereโs a weight to it now. A depth.
He knows what it means to have someone for a lifetime. He knows what it costs to stay โ what it takes to love a man who wakes from nightmares, who still pauses at loud noises, who forgets heโs safe even now.
And he sees what it cost you, too.
He saw it in your eyes when the baby was crying and he wasnโt home.
Saw it when you had to explain to your daughter why โdaddyโ missed her school recital.
Saw it in the way you smiled through the loneliness, always so patient, always so good.
He never said thank you. Not enough.
So now he shows it.
In every slow dance in the kitchen.
In every cup of tea made before you ask.
In every time he reaches for your hand during a movie, just to feel your fingers between his.
He asks you one night.
โDo you regret it?โ
Itโs late. The moonlightโs dripping through the window, and the sheets are tangled between your legs. Youโre half-asleep, but his voice pulls you back.
You turn toward him. Find him already watching you.
โAll of it,โ he says, quietly.
And you reach for him, tuck your fingers beneath his chin like you did when you were younger. His beard is whiter now. His eyes softer.
โIโd do it all over again,โ you say.
And he believes you. With every beat of his scarred, stubborn heart.
You fall asleep like that โ your fingers in his, your breath slow against his skin.
And somewhere in the dark, in a house full of years and silence and everything you've both endured...
Simon smiles.
Because in the end, despite everything heโs done, everything heโs lostโ
You stayed.
And that made all the difference.
It starts with small things.
Keys. Names.
What day it is.
Where he left his book.
At first, you joke about it. Call it โold man brain,โ and he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering something about brain damage and too many concussions.
But then he starts calling the dog by the wrong name.
Asks where your daughter is โ even though she just called.
He forgets the kettle is on.
Leaves the tap running.
Stares at the cupboard, confused, trying to remember why he opened it.
And one day, you find him standing in the hallway, still as stone, holding one of her baby toys in his hand.
โShe used to chew on this,โ he says, quiet, โdidnโt she?โ
You nod.
โSheโs twenty-seven now, Simon.โ
He blinks at the toy.
โOh.โ
You learn his patterns.
He doesnโt like loud noises anymore.
Doesnโt like too many people in the house.
Gets tired easily. Confused quickly. Frustrated at himself more than anything.
But heโs still him.
He still drinks his tea the same way. Still looks for your hand under the blanket when you watch old movies. Still walks beside you in the garden, pointing at flowers like he remembers what theyโre called โ even if he doesnโt.
โIs that one theโฆ the purple one?โ he asks.
You smile. โLavender.โ
โRight. Right, I knew that.โ
He didnโt.
But he likes when you pretend he did.
Sometimes he has bad days.
Days where he wakes up and doesnโt know where he is.
Days when he looks at you and his face folds โ not in anger, but in heartbreak.
โIโm supposed to know you,โ he says once, voice shaking. โArenโt I?โ
You take his hands. Place them on your cheeks. Let him feel the shape of your face.
โYou do. You always have.โ
He breathes in, trembling.
โIโm scared, love.โ
โI know,โ you whisper. โItโs okay. Iโm not going anywhere.โ
And you donโt.
You never do.
But there are still good days.
Days when he laughs at your terrible jokes.
When he remembers how to make your tea before you do.
When he tells you a story from the army โ one he swore heโd forgotten.
And there are still evenings where he pulls you in, slow and careful, kisses the corner of your mouth and says,
โStill the prettiest thing Iโve ever seen.โ
โEven with the wrinkles?โ you tease.
โEspecially with them,โ he grins.
You cry in the kitchen after that one.
Quietly.
Not because youโre sad.
But because you still get to have this.
And then one morning, he doesnโt know your name.
He wakes with a start. Looks at you.
And doesnโt say anything.
Not confusion. Not fear. Justโฆ blankness.
You speak gently. Smile.
Tell him your name like itโs the first time.
Tell him youโre safe. That he is too.
And he nods.
โAlright. If you say so.โ
But later โ later that same day โ when you bring him tea, he takes your hand and murmurs:
โThank you, sweetheart.โ
You freeze.
โDo you know who I am?โ
He blinks. Thinks.
โNo. But I know I love you.โ
The days stretch longer now.
Heโs quieter, softer โ not from peace, but from the slow unraveling of time. There are whole mornings where he doesnโt speak at all. Just watches the trees, the clouds, your hands in the garden. Like his soul has moved somewhere deep inside, and heโs just floating now.
He forgets more often than he remembers.
But he still holds your hand.
Even when he doesnโt know who you are, he finds your fingers. Rubs his thumb over your knuckle. Leans into your shoulder like a man whoโs known only one comfort in his entire life.
And he has.
You.
He sleeps more now.
Sometimes all day.
You sit with him. Read aloud. Tell stories he once told you. Some of them are true, some of them arenโt โ he wouldnโt correct you now even if he knew.
But he smiles sometimes. At the sound of your voice.
Like part of him โ the part too deep to lose โ still knows you.
And when he wakes, slow and blinking, he always asks:
โYouโre still here?โ
And you always answer, soft and warm:
โIโve always been here.โ
It happens on a rainy morning.
Thereโs nothing dramatic about it.
No gasp. No panic. No final words.
Just a stillness.
You wake first. His hand is still wrapped around yours. His chest still, his face soft, relaxed โ like he simply drifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere gentler.
He doesnโt look afraid.
He looks young.
Somehow.
Like the weight finally left him.
And for a long, long time, you donโt move.
You just rest your head on his chest, where his heartbeat used to be, and whisper the only thing that ever mattered:
โYou made it, Simon. Youโre safe now.โ
You bury him beside the lavender.
The spot he always loved โ where the bees hummed and the light hit just right in spring.
Your daughter helps. The grandkids each place a flower on the earth. You keep your hand on the stone long after everyone else has gone.
Thereโs no mask on it. No rank. No war stories.
Just:
Simon Riley
Beloved Husband. Father. Safe, at last.
And you keep living.
Not out of duty.
Not out of guilt.
But because he would want you to.
You still drink your tea the way he made it.
Still hum old songs while folding the laundry.
Still leave the porch light on, out of habit.
Some nights, you sit alone with the rain on the window and close your eyes โ and you swear you feel it:
His hand on your shoulder.
The breath of him.
The warmth.
You speak into the dark like heโs still beside you.
โIโll be there soon. Not yet. But soon.โ
Because real love never ends.
And the life you built together โ the quiet, the pain, the laughter, the child, the years โ it doesnโt vanish when he goes.
It lives in you.
In your daughter.
In every soft, ordinary, beautiful thing he once thought he could never have.
Simon made it home.
And home was always you.
You can help me by reblogging my works with the tags and please do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms.
[ finished a new illustration - inspired by Sleep Token's album Even in Arcadia and artist Franz von Bayros's illustrations for Dante's Inferno. mixed media: pencil, ink, digital illustration ]
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