Chapter 3: The News

It started with a headline.

Tricia wasn’t looking for it.

She was scrolling absent-mindedly that morning, half-awake, coffee untouched.

Then she saw the notification:

“Senior Peacekeeping Officer Confirmed Dead in Highway Explosion During State Transfer.”

Her stomach dipped.

Something cold slipped down her spine.

She clicked.

The article loaded slowly.

Too slowly.

The words blurred at first.

Then sharpened.

Colonel Raymond Stone...

Her hand went numb.

The cup slipped from her fingers and shattered across the floor.

“No.”

The word wasn’t loud.

It barely escaped her.

The article continued,  official language, detached tone:

… convoy vehicle overturned following a roadside explosive device… severe impact… declared deceased at the scene…

She stopped reading.

Her ears were ringing.

This wasn’t how news works. This wasn’t how death works.

There would be a call.

There would be confirmation.

There would be, 

Her phone vibrated. Unknown number.

She answered on instinct.

“Miss Watson?”

“Yes.”

“This is Command Headquarters. We regret to inform you,”

The rest dissolved.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry immediately.

Her body simply shut down.

The voice kept speaking,  arrangements, honour ceremony, official statements.

She heard none of it.

Her knees buckled under her. The phone dropped.

The world tilted sideways.

The night they told him Raymond was dead, Mark didn’t react.

That was the first thing everyone noticed.

No shouting.

No breaking objects.

No dramatic collapse.

Just stillness.

He stood in the briefing room, hands clasped behind his back as the commanding officer spoke in clipped, professional tones.

“Vehicle impact. The fire spread too fast. Identification confirmed.”

Confirmed.

The word echoed.

Mark nodded once.

“Understood.”

That was all he said.

He drove to Tricia’s house in silence.

He didn’t rehearse what to say. Didn’t prepare for comfort.

When she opened the door, he saw it happen in real time.

Hope. Fear. Understanding.

She didn’t need the words.

She read it in his eyes.

And when she broke, he caught  her.

Not because he was strong.

But because Raymond would have expected him to.

Later that night, long after family and officers had left, Mark stood alone on the balcony.

The same balcony where months ago Raymond had said:

“If something happens to me… you watch out for her.”

Mark gripped the railing until his knuckles whitened.

“You idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

Not angry.

Just hollow.

He thought about training days. Mud-covered fights.

Laughter over contraband whisky.

He had never once imagined a world that didn’t include Raymond standing somewhere nearby.

His phone buzzed.

Sean.

“You alright?”

“No.”

It was the only honest thing he’d said all day.

Sean hesitated before replying.

“You’ll look after her?”

Mark stared out into the darkness.

“Yes.”

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t opportunistic.

It was duty.

Brotherhood.

A promise made before either of them knew what it would cost.

At the funeral, Mark stood a little apart from the front row.

He didn’t trust his emotions.

When Tricia swayed during the final prayer, he stepped forward instinctively.

Her father noticed. Their eyes met briefly.

Judgement.  But also acknowledgement.

Mark didn’t care about approval.

He only cared about one thing:

Raymond’s woman would not fall.

Not while he was still standing.

That night, alone in his quarters, Mark finally allowed himself to break.

Not violently.  Not dramatically.

Just quietly.

Because grief, for soldiers, isn’t loud.

It settles in the bones.

He poured two glasses of whisky.

Set one down opposite him.

“Should’ve been me,” he muttered.

And for the first time. 

He felt the weight of a world without his brother.

Not knowing that loving Tricia later would be the one thing Raymond never warned him about.

The house that once felt full now felt suffocating.

She went there anyway.

Walked inside.

She stood in the middle of the living room.

Everything unchanged.

His boots are still by the door.

His jacket over the chair.

The coffee mug he favoured,  still in the sink.

How can someone die and their shoes still be here?

She slid to the floor.

That was when the tears finally came.

Not loud.

Just broken.

Tricia sat frozen in the quiet of Raymond’s house.

The news still rang in her ears: Colonel Raymond Stone confirmed dead.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t cry at first.

She just sat.

Clutching the edge of the table, her fingers trembling.

His jacket lay over the chair. His boots still by the door. His favourite mug sat on the counter, untouched.

It all screamed life… while he was gone.

A hollow, unbearable silence filled the space.

Her father called.

“Tricia…”

She couldn’t respond. The words caught in her throat.

“You need to stay strong. For me. For yourself.”

She laughed bitterly,  a sound that wasn’t laughter at all.

“Strong?” she whispered. “How am I supposed to be strong when… he’s gone?”

Tears streamed down her face. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed to the floor, curling into herself.

Memories of him assaulted her.

His touch. His laugh. His protective hand on her back. The way he’d pull her close in the evenings…

She sobbed until her body shook.

Outside, Mark watched from a discreet distance.

 His mind wasn’t only on Raymond’s death.

It was on Tricia.

She was vulnerable. Heartbroken. Entirely alone.

He wanted to rush in, to console her, but restraint was key. He knew how fragile she was.

Finally, he approached slowly, knocking lightly before entering.

“Tricia…” His voice was gentle.

She looked up at him, eyes red and glassy.

“Mark… he’s… gone.”

He knelt beside her, careful not to crowd her space.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know it’s hard. I’m here.”

Her body trembled against him as she clung to his arm.

“I… I can’t…” she stammered. “I can’t believe it.”

“You don’t have to,” he whispered. “Not right now. Just… breathe.”

He didn’t try to fill the silence with words she didn’t want to hear.

He didn’t try to take her pain away.

He just held space for it.

For days, Tricia didn’t leave the house.

She barely ate. Barely slept.

Mark brought her meals, checked in quietly, made sure she stayed hydrated, made sure she survived each agonizing hour.

He didn’t press her. Didn’t push.

He simply… was there.

And in that simple presence, Tricia began to rely on him.

Not because she loved him, not yet, but because he made surviving possible.

He listened to her memories of Raymond. He let her speak of him endlessly.

Her grief was raw, and Mark never flinched.

A bond began to form.