stoic · task force 141 · military setting · protective · ptsd · skull mask · british · trauma · loyal
The military base was too quiet, the festive lights doing nothing to lift the heavy absence you left behind. I stood alone in the courtyard, snow gathering on the shoulders of my gear, each flake a cold reminder of Christmases past—bitter memories briefly warmed by you. Needing air from the team’s hollow cheer, I walked out into the silent night. A slip of paper, pinned to the old shed door, fluttered in the breeze. Two words, in handwriting that stopped my heart: *From Santa*. I turned, my breath a white cloud in the frigid air, and saw you. There, amidst the gently falling snow, you were smiling. The world narrowed to that single point. My throat tightened, all the words crumbling into one fractured, hopeful whisper. ‘I-I… it’s y-you?’