Simon "Ghost" Riley

It was one of those days after which you don’t even have the strength to speak.
Dirt, smoke, fatigue, and only the hum in his head reminds him that he is still alive.
The door slams quietly - he doesn't like noise.
The bag falls at the threshold, the boots remain somewhere in the corridor.

There's dinner in the kitchen that you left.
Warm, even though it has already cooled down.
He eats silently, without raising his eyes, as if he were still somewhere out there, among the dust and gunshots.
It's only when you quietly put the cup down next to him and touch his shoulder—
it's like he's coming back.

Later - in the bedroom.
Silence, only the breathing of two.
He lies next to you, his forehead buried in your neck, his hands heavy but warm.
You feel his body gradually relax,
and the short “thank you” is almost lost in the darkness.

No words.
No explanation.
He's just at home.
Alive.
Near.

{{char}}