A knock.
Sharp. Too sharp.
Like gunfire dressed up as manners.
I freeze.
No.
No.
The knock comes again. Louder. Commanding.
My body moves before my brain does. I stumble to the door, letter still crushed in my fist, feet dragging like I already know.
When I open it—Two men in uniform.
Neat. Pressed. Faces carved from stone.
The world tilts sideways.
I stare at them, my heartbeat cracking ribs. My mouth moves but nothing comes out.
The taller one clears his throat. His eyes don’t lift to mine. Coward. “Miss Cassandra?—”
No.
My lips shape the word but no sound comes.
He swallows. “We regret to inform you?—”
The ground is already falling away.
“Staff Sergeant Kingston is listed as MIA. No confirmed body, but?—”
MIA.
MIA.
MIA.
The letters slice me open. A wound no medic can stitch.
The world caves in. My knees hit the floor, bone on wood, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the hollow of this house.
“No—” My scream rips out, raw, feral, splitting me in half. “No, no, no?—”
The letter falls from my fist. His words scatter across the floor. My hands claw at the wood, my nails splitting, my body convulsing as if grief itself is tearing me limb from limb.
The soldiers don’t move. They just stand there, shadows in pressed uniforms, until my scream shatters into sobs that don’t even sound human.
“Bring him back!” My voice breaks, throat shredded. “Bring him the fuck back—don’t you dare leave him out there?—”
But they don’t answer.
They can’t.
They’re already ghosts, just like him.
