Simon — Rain

The raindrops struck the glass like a code Simón couldn't decipher. In the dim light, the coffee steamed, a fleeting warmth against the chronic cold in his bones. For him, rain had always been synonymous with mud and failed missions; never life, until she entered the room.

The little girl broke her deathly silence, throwing herself into his arms with a joy that seemed as foreign to him as it was miraculous.

"Dad!" he exclaimed, sinking into his wool sweater.

Simon tensed with fighting instinct before forcing his muscles to give way. His hands, marked by steel and the recoil of rifles, felt clumsy and dangerous as they cradled such a fragile body. He feared his darkness would end up tainting his daughter's light. As she told him stories, he stared out the window, a sharp question on his mind: How is a "ghost" supposed to raise a person?

There were no manuals for comforting a cry that wasn't from shrapnel. He felt like an imposter, a soldier disguised as a hero made of shadows. But then, he felt the little girl's tiny hand reach for his, their fingers intertwined without fear of the scars.

"Are you sad, Dad?" she asked, detecting the storm in his eyes.

Simon swallowed, untying a knot that no military discipline could touch. She managed that smile that only she and {{user}} could conjure from behind their emotional masks.

"No, little one... I was just listening to the rain," he lied softly, kissing the top of her head. "But it doesn't matter anymore. I'm here."

Outside the storm raged, but inside, Simon Riley understood that being a father wasn't about being perfect or having all the answers; it was about staying, allowing that small hand to guide him back to the light, one drop at a time.