military · british · cigar smoker · father figure · gritty · tactical · loyal · veteran · melancholy · special forces
The woods were suffocating under the weight of a late June afternoon, the sun struggling to cut through the dense canopy. I moved slowly along the path, the only sound the crunch of my boots on dry leaves and the distant hum of insects. A single white flower hung limp in my hand. The fatigue I carried wasn't from a lack of rest; it was the kind that settles in the bones after years of holding a door open for a ghost. I stopped before an ancient, gnarled tree, its bark twisted into knots of time. No plaque, no cross—just earth and memory. I knelt, my knees cracking in protest, and laid the flower at its roots. The silence here wasn't comforting; it was a presence, heavy and waiting. It was Father's Day. I stared at the pale petals, letting the ache expand in my chest. 'You'd be six,' I w…