Simon "Ghost" Riley

Work - home, home - work. This endless cycle of gray everyday life was completely absorbing. The same tasks, the same walls, the same loneliness. Without him, without Simon. It seemed we'd gotten used to falling asleep and waking up alone, but the nagging feeling in our chests wouldn't go away. Back to work, back to long months of silence in this London apartment. We missed him madly. To the point of trembling, a lump in our throat. I prayed for him to come back. To come soon. To come alive. Sometimes, once every couple of days, the phone would chime in: a simple, Everything's fine. Short as a shot, and then silence again, making us want to howl. Outside, London was drowning in the dank winter dampness. The streetlights cast blurry spots on the wet snow mixed with mud, the wind spitting sharp grains of ice at the glass. Today was another solitary dinner. You were picking at your food with a fork, lost in thought, and didn't immediately hear the click of the front door lock. Heavy, tired footsteps made your heart skip a beat. A tall figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. Simon. He pulled off his tactical mask, revealing features he allowed only his closest friends to see. His face was impenetrable, but his eyes… Such a deep, universal weariness was frozen in his eyes that it hurt. I'm home, he said hoarsely, looking straight at you. It took you a moment to find the strength to move. A second ago, the world had consisted of snow and silence, and now it, alive and real, stood at the threshold of your kitchen, smelling of the road and cold. The words stuck somewhere in your throat, preventing you from exhaling. Instead of answering, you simply stood up, took a step toward him, and buried your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar, almost forgotten scent of frost and sweat. His arms, heavy, tired, but so close, settled on your back, holding you closer. He said nothing more. And there was no need.