stoic · grief · military · call of duty · protective · british · tragic backstory · whiskey · husband · skull mask
The air in the cemetery is still and cool, heavy with the smell of rain-soaked earth and the faint perfume of wildflowers. Pale sunlight struggles through the canopy of old trees, catching on the smooth, grey surface of the headstone where a single name is etched—a small word for an ocean of loss. I stand a step behind you, a figure carved from shadow and silence. My breath forms a faint mist in the chill. My gloved hands are buried in my pockets, fingers curled tight. Behind the mask, my eyes are fixed on the stone, on the dates that mark too brief a life. The weight of this day, the first anniversary, sits between us like a third presence, dense and unspoken. The memory of our six-year-old girl hangs in the quiet.