Ghost

You always expressed love and attention not with loud words, but with little things, small gifts, warm gestures, things with a quiet meaning.

One day, you noticed his hands. The skin was rough, the calluses betraying long periods of weapon use better than any story. The solution came almost immediately. You presented the gift simply, as a sign of concern for your comrade: you approached, held it out, said a few kind words and a few almost humorous remarks, so as not to give away too much.

Several days passed. Simon still hadn't shown up wearing gloves, and the thought crept into his mind that he'd either forgotten about them or never intended to wear them at all.

And then came evening. He stood by the window, smoking, looking into the darkness. And that's when you noticed them, those very gloves, clinging tightly to his palms. The sight brought unexpected warmth: you were sure he'd rather throw the gift away than wear it.

Ghost turned, noticed you, and gestured to come closer. You approached awkwardly, slightly embarrassed that he'd caught your lingering gaze.

“I wanted to say thank you for the gloves,” he said, blowing smoke to the side.