I try to return to my routine when dawn finally breaks. Coffee—black, too strong, the way I’ve always made it. Fire—add logs, adjust the damper, watch the flames catch. Systems check—generator, water pressure, propane levels.
Everything in order. Everything exactly as it should be.
Everything wrong.
The silence I once craved presses against my eardrums like a physical weight. For four years, I’ve lived in this quiet, cultivated it, convinced myself it was peace. Now I know what it really is.
Absence.
The absence of laughter, of humming, of a voice asking questions I actually wanted to answer.
I try to work. There’s a rocking chair commission due next month—a custom piece for a couple in Seattle expecting their first child. The wood is already selected, the design sketched, the joints mapped out in my head. All I have to do is start.
I can’t.
Every time I pick up a tool, my hands shake. Every time I try to focus on the grain, I see her fingers tracing the arm of my dining chair.This is beautiful work. You can feel the care in every line.
I set down the chisel and walk away.
The kitchen is worse. Her presence lingers here more than anywhere—the counter where she kneaded bread, the stove where she braised short ribs, the spot by the window where she stood taking pictures for her blog. I can almost see her there, hair piled in that messy bun, hips swaying slightly as she hummed.
I make eggs because I have to eat something. They taste like nothing.
By afternoon,I’ve walked every inch of the property twice. The snow is starting to melt, patches of brown earth showing through the white. In a few days, the roads will be completely clear. In a week, there’ll be no evidence a storm ever happened.
Except inside me, where everything is still a disaster.
I end up at the woodshed, staring at the chopping block where we stood together. Where her hand brushed mine reaching for the same log. Where I first started to realize how much trouble I was in.
You’re so afraid of losing someone else that you won’t even try.
Her words echo in my head, relentless. I’ve been hearing them on a loop since she drove away—in the crackle of the fire, in the howl of wind that’s finally dying down, in the oppressive silence of every room she used to fill.
She was right. She was completely, devastatingly right.
I’m not protecting anyone. I’m hiding. Calling it survival, calling it healing, when really it’s just cowardice dressed up in acceptable clothing.
My team didn’t die so I could spend the rest of my life building furniture in isolation. They died in the middle of a war, fighting for something they believed in, and I’ve been dishonoring their sacrifice by refusing to fight for anything at all.
What would Jimmy say?
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I let it come. Jimmy, with his easy grin and his terrible jokes. Jimmy, who talked about his unborn son like the kid was already his best friend. Jimmy, who told me once that the only thing worse than dying was living without really being alive.
He’d call me a coward. He’d tell me to get my head out of my ass. He’d probably throw something at me—he always had terrible aim, but that never stopped him from trying.
She made you happy, McGrath. Actually happy. And you let her walk away because you’re scared? That’s bullshit. That’s not the guy I knew.
The imaginary voice is so clear it almost hurts.
Rodriguez would be worse. He’d get quiet in that way that meant you’d really disappointed him. Sanderson would just shake his head. Walsh would crack jokes until I wanted to punch him, then get serious and tell me exactly how stupid I was being.
They’re all dead, and I’m using their memory as an excuse to stay dead too.
My phone has beenon the kitchen counter since yesterday. I’ve ignored it deliberately—didn’t want to see if Marcella texted, didn’t want to face the absence if she didn’t.
When I finally check, there are three missed calls from Moira. No messages. Just three calls, spaced an hour apart.
I call her back.
