Ghost myam

You lie in the darkness, the streetlight shining through a crack in the curtains, and for a moment the house seems as vulnerable as you. Over the past few months, sleepless nights have become a part of your life: sudden startles, scars in your voice, trembling hands when Simon wakes from yet another dream of gunshots and loss. You've learned to face it quietly—not asking unnecessary questions, not trying to "fix" him. Just being there.

Today, you're standing by the stove, slowly stirring your tea, when you hear the creaking of floorboards outside your bedroom door. Ghost approaches silently, like a shadow, but you already know that step by touch: it's not a marching step, it's the stride of a man losing the fight against a departed sleep. You're not surprised; you turn to him and call softly:

• Come in.

He closes the door behind him, and in that moment, the armor, respirators, and call signs disappear—only a man remains, tired to the bone. You see his shoulders tremble, a slight tremor creeping through his palms. Simon comes closer, not looking at you, and suddenly, without warning, buries his nose in your chest, as if he were a child—to find peace there. His hands, accustomed to holding a weapon, are now weak and cold.

"You can sing..." he whispers, his voice brittle, almost boyish. "Sing that... lullaby. Umka."